


Tearing You Apart

by fabricdragon



Series: Odyssey [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), BAMF John Watson, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, F/M, Fat Shaming, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jim Moriarty is more than a bit not good, Loss of Control, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Relationship(s), Sadism, Safeword Use, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Stockholm Syndrome, Tattoos, Threats, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, bad or unsafe relationships, minor but i want to TW it, this is NOT a goood example
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 34,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9659765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Picks up after "Unwanted Attentions" and "Homecoming"Mycroft  believes that with Sherlock safely back at Baker Street, he can ignore Jim Moriarty's demands. he is VERY very wrong.Considerably more explicit story arc.





	1. Chapter 1

It didn’t take long for Mycroft to recover his pride. _I simply will not do it._

Mycroft was absolutely not going to walk into a tattoo parlor and have JM and a crown tattooed on his chest. While he had to admit it was an elegant design, and considerably less traumatic to get than what he’d done to Jim Moriarty, he simply wasn’t going to let him do anything permanent.

Not now that Sherlock was back.

_Jim had been a fool to give up that leverage_. Sherlock was safe and sound, all he had to do was destroy–or more likely simply discredit– the evidence against him, and he would be untouchable again. _Sadly, this would mean removing the room in the basement, but… it was too much of a temptation, in any case._

Mycroft had to admit: if he hadn’t had the room, he might not have given in to the temptation to kidnap Moriarty PERSONALLY.  If he’d just had him thrown into a pit– or shot– officially, then it wouldn’t have been an issue.

He would have to delete all of his records.

Giving up the room would hurt, but since he NEVER intended to use it again– he’d been a fool for doing so, ever– it wasn’t that difficult.

Deleting the records… he had a perfect memory, he could live without…

No, he couldn’t.

He retrieved the memory card and put it into his computer.

He opened it up to the last night: the last night he’d had with Jim.

Jim was on his knees, of course–his dark head bent down, stretching his neck slightly, muscles corded along his neck and shoulders– while Mycroft carved into his shoulder.

Mycroft had to admire his ability to hold still for this– of course, he hurt him worse if he didn’t. He wasn’t screaming– not at this– just little whimpering noises. Mycroft watched as the blood welled up on the design…

He’d used the scalpel to scribe a curving triskele into his shoulder _.  The man was Irish after all, it should suit him._ When he’d finished, Jim had fallen forward onto the floor, and Mycroft had spent some time resting his feet in the small of his back.

Mycroft stared at the video. He hadn’t remembered that many marks on him–or hadn’t thought about it.  The triskele was alright but so many of the others were just… ugly.

It felt like a hundred years ago, like it wasn’t even him.

He thought about the first video Jim had sent him, where the proof of how LONG he’d had Sherlock was how long that triskele carved into his shoulder had healed, along with the fact that he still showed all the signs of having been a prisoner: his muscles slack, his skin paler than it should be…

He wryly had to admit that he hadn’t taken very good care of Jim, but then originally he hadn’t meant him to survive that long.

Sherlock had come out of Jim’s care with scarcely a mark– physically… He wondered what condition he was in mentally. He’d been so angry at Mycroft– so fearful, for all he hid it– and pitying him, but under that had been a deep depression like he hadn’t seen in years.  _Of course, he would have been bored– Sherlock was easily bored._

His brother had been back for less than 24 hours when his phone chimed. He looked at the text:

Don’t try to weasel out of it, Mycroft. You’re going to get it one way or another. I assure you it hurts less if it’s done voluntarily, and I suspect you don’t have my pain tolerance.– JM

You gave up your leverage.–MH

A few minutes later, he was emailed a video link. He opened it and realized that Sherlock hadn’t exaggerated at all.

The long range camera focused on the room must have been aimed through the streaked window, the one with the sheer curtains, but there was no haze, no blocking of the central view.

He saw his car pull up, he saw himself walk in, and he saw himself give in and torment Donovan, and take the photos…

You could have digitally created that; no one will believe you.–MH

Suit yourself, Mycroft. You have 48 hours.–JM

Mycroft spent the next two days using every resource at his disposal to find Jim Moriarty–without admitting he was alive.  There was also no way that he could get at Sherlock: the guards were his best.  As to the blackmail? Well, the Donovan film could be damaging but no one was likely to believe it was him, and he doubted Jim would release the videos that showed JIM being held down.

Two days later he got a call: Sherlock had vanished.

~

John Watson knew the symptoms of PTSD– he knew them very well– and Sherlock had almost all of them.  He was clingy– _which was downright unnatural–_ and jumped at the slightest sign that anything was wrong. He also didn’t want to let John out of his sight.

“I’m okay, Sherlock. No one bothered me, and have you noticed the number of people lurking about that all seem to be terribly officially unofficial?”

“John, you just don’t understand.”

“Then tell me what HAPPENED!”

“I don’t want you hurt.”

“Sherlock…”

But he either wouldn’t, or couldn’t, say more than that Mycroft had hurt Jim, and that Jim had now focused on Mycroft.

Sherlock wouldn’t leave the house, but, since he was still officially dead, it wasn’t that big a deal.  It took two days before John could convince Sherlock it was safe for him to go out grocery shopping. “Look, I’m just going to Tesco…”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You’re still dead, right?”

“I’ll follow you discreetly.”

“No.”

John half-expected Sherlock to follow him anyway.  He didn’t see him, and he couldn’t see anyone following him except Mycroft’s men, but it was Sherlock– it meant nothing.

*

The phone ringing in the flat startled Sherlock, but he was dead, after all, so he couldn’t answer; he let it go to record.

“Sherlock, darling, pick up, I know you’re there.” Jim’s voice across the flat shocked Sherlock into immobility.

“NOW, Sherlock.”

He picked up the phone. “Why are you calling me, Jim?” He kept his voice level; the recordings had been good training for that.

“Because your brother is being obstinate. Get your coat, go slip away from those idiots, and meet me at this address.” He rattled off an address in an area known for punk, upper class slumming, and Westwood.

Sherlock thought about John– and his brother– and nodded. “I’ll be right there; it will delay me slipping the guards, though.” He erased the message and left.

~

When John came back there was a note: “Gone out, be safe.” _God DAMN it, Sherlock!_ John sighed and set about making tea.

And waited.

And waited.

Unfamiliar footsteps came up the stairs; by the time John turned, Mycroft was coming into the flat.

“If you don’t want to get SHOT Mycroft, I suggest knocking,” John glared at him.

“Why did Sherlock go out?”

“I have no idea, he just left a note. I went to Tesco and when I came back–”

Mycroft sagged into the chair.  John looked at his expression… “He’s been kidnapped?”

“I don’t know, but I’m almost out of time.”

“Time for what?”

“It’s not your concern.” Mycroft got up to go and John snapped.

“Sherlock won’t tell me anything other than that you hurt Jim and now Moriarty is focused on you; you won’t tell me anything, but you think Sherlock’s been kidnapped.” John stepped up into his face and glared up at him. “Sherlock has been having the worst PTSD I’ve seen in someone without any obvious injuries, and now you want me to just stay OUT of it?!”

“It’s better that you do,” Mycroft said, looking at the little man in the worn, oatmeal-colored jumper. _Goldfish_. He shook his head and pushed him aside…

…and suddenly was on his stomach, with John Watson’s arm across his throat, and one hand behind his back.

“Get OFF me! I’ll have you KILLED!”

John increased the pressure on his throat and it was suddenly very hard to breath. His arm got wrenched higher.

“You might,” John nodded and pulled his arm up tighter. “But you forget something, Mycroft:  I like Sherlock, I don’t like YOU, and frankly, Sherlock’s the only thing I have worth living for right now, so you get to tell me everything you know, or I break your shoulder– I can tell you exactly how much that hurts– and then, if that doesn’t work, I’ll snap your neck and deliver your great, fat body to Moriarty myself.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” He pulled his arm up tighter. Mycroft made a strangled crying noise.

The phone rang and Mycroft jerked, trying to get away with the distraction, John tightened his grip across his neck.

“Johnny boy, I admit I didn’t think you had it in you…” Jim’s voice came from the answering machine. 

Both John and Mycroft froze. _Oh, dear God, it really is…_ John shivered as he remembered the pool.

“But since you’re being so useful… Can you deliver him? Alive preferably; I think a hostage exchange is quite suitable.”

“You can hear me,” John stated– it wasn’t a question.

“Yes, of course I can: the flat was bugged ages ago. Mycroft was supposed to go someplace, and he refused. I gave him 48 hours, and he wasn’t there, so I picked Sherlock back up.  He was only released on Mycroft’s good behavior, you know.” He gave him an address. “See you there. Ta!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions, often unwelcome.

“You were supposed to go someplace, and didn’t, and THAT’S why Sherlock got kidnapped?”

“He was safe!” Mycroft snarled from the floor.

There was a sound of a window opening–John froze.  A strong, slightly rough voice called in from the bedrooms, “Jim said you might need a hand?”

Mycroft started struggling again.  John watched as a man walked in: he was large, tall, and powerfully built, with some visible scars here and there, and clearly ex-military.  He stayed at a distance and studied John thoughtfully.

“I have handcuffs,” he offered.

John nodded. The man came over, cuffed Mycroft’s wrists, and then cuffed his ankles. He pulled Mycroft’s  phone out and his watch off and dropped them on the floor. John got clear and made sure he had his gun.

Mycroft was hauled up by his handcuffs behind his back.  “You have no idea who you’re dealing with!” Mycroft hissed at him.

“I know exactly who I’m dealing with, Mycroft Holmes. I’m the one who put those bruises on your brother–I shouldn’t have; it really wasn’t about him, just you.” He bared his teeth next to Mycroft’s ear, “Don’t give me an excuse.”

“What’s this?” John looked suspicious at the man.

“Captain,” he nodded and straightened into an almost parade rest–allowing for still holding Mycroft with his hands wrenched behind his back. “I stepped out of line and injured Sherlock once. It cost me a great deal of Jim’s trust.” _He looked pained, actually._ “You need help getting clear of the guards; I have a car. Can you climb?”

“Yes. But–“ he nodded at Mycroft.

“Sherlock has heroin in his room. We dose him.”

“I will have you SKINNED!” Mycroft howled.

 _Sherlock had heroin in his room, of course he did_. John shrugged and shoved a scarf in his mouth, knotting it around his head. “If anyone hurts Sherlock I WILL kill them,” he said, glaring at the man. _I’ll deal with the heroin later, once he’s safe._

“Call me Sebastian… and if I laid a finger on Sherlock without Jim’s permission ever again, you wouldn’t find enough of me to kill.” He suddenly grinned at John, “You’re not what I expected; I thought you were a mouse.”

“Lots of people do. Mice don’t keep up with the lunatic I live with. Do you know where he hides it?”

“Sounds like my lunatic, actually.” He nodded. “Third floorboard from the foot of his bed: feel for the edge that dips; get in with a butter knife.”

John walked off. He came back with a small collection of works. “I’m going to have WORDS with Sherlock about this.”

“Then you also want to have words over the stash inside the door– it’s just harder to get to.”

John set up the shot– a low dose. “You seem to have a suspicious amount of knowledge of my flat.”

Mycroft was being extremely uncooperative. Sebastian shifted his grip on Mycroft. “You know, he just said no PERMENENT injury…” and kneed him in the groin. 

Since he must have been having trouble breathing through the scarf anyway, it was easy to give him a shot after that. Mycroft went bonelessly limp.

“Don’t think we aren’t done talking about Sherlock,” John said tensely.

Sebastian slung him over his back, said, “Wouldn’t imagine it,” and went back out the window. 

John watched him CLIMB down the wall with Mycroft slung over his shoulder and resolved never to face the man without a gun.  When he climbed down, he noticed that there were suspiciously easy grips in the wall: not obvious, just protrusions of concrete and slight divots for finger holes. By the time he got to the bottom his shoulder ached badly.

When he got down, they got into a car, Mycroft shoved in the boot.

As they drove, John looked at Sebastian. “How badly did you hurt Sherlock?”

“Scared him worse than hurt him.” Sebastian shrugged. “Bad enough, the Boss was furious.”

“I’m pretty unhappy about that,” John glared at him.

“Yeah? Well, seeing Jim’s back and chest carved up and his feet torn open didn’t–“

“What?”

“What Mycroft did to him…”

“I have no idea what Mycroft did, other than ‘hurt him’. What did he do?”

“Oh… Sorry, Captain, I thought you knew.” Sebastian’s voice softened.

“John,” he nodded. “No, no one said anything.”

“Mycroft had him prisoner after he ‘died’ at Reichenbach.  He tortured him, carved him up, cut his feet to ribbons, and carved his initial into him.  He’s a mass of scars now, worse than me by far.”

“What? Why would... Why?!” _Sherlock had avoided details, but had seemed so surprised to have lived…_

“Because he wanted to?” Sebastian shrugged. “I don’t have any idea why someone wants to cut up a pretty thing when they could fuck it, but some people do. Apparently, Sherlock didn’t know about it, but wasn’t too surprised.”

After a bit Sebastian sighed. “Look, John… I don’t expect you to like me, but I was angry as hell about what that bastard did to Jim, and then I was watching Sherlock every day, and he’s PRETTY…” John tensed. “Like you can’t admit that? He’s fucking gorgeous.”

“So? Yeah, he’s good looking.”

“So the Boss comes out, he’s upset, his shirt’s off, and I see all those damned scars again–and I lost it.  YOU just beat up and helped kidnap his brother and you didn’t even know what he DID, so can you get the idea that I did something I shouldn’t have?”

 _God, I did, didn’t I?_ “You got punished for it?”

Sebastian winced, “Yeah. And essentially demoted, and I’m not allowed in the same room with Sherlock unless Jim says so…” He glanced at John. “Unless Jim gets killed–then I have orders.”

“You come anywhere near Sherlock, and you’re going through me first.”

“I got that, yeah.”

_So this is Moriarty’s… me, I suppose. I’m willing to shoot people and kidnap Mycroft to protect Sherlock; I suppose he’s willing to do at least as much for Moriarty. Odd that they both have military men…_

They drove in silence the rest of the way.  They pulled up behind a warehouse and Sebastian got Mycroft out.  He kept trying to glare at them, but the effect was spoiled by the foggy look.

“You’re going to have to take him in.” Sebastian looked apologetic. “Sherlock’s in there, so I’m on outside guard duty.”

John didn’t say anything, just manhandled Mycroft into the building. He moved past the first room toward a lighted room off to the side. There was a padded table, a rather nervous-looking man wearing a medical paper mask, and Jim Moriarty.

John pushed the pool, terror, and red dots dancing, out of his mind and pointed the gun at him. “Where’s Sherlock?”

Jim just smiled, “Hello Johnny, hello Mycroft…” then the smile faded slightly. “What happened to Mycroft?”

Mycroft had stopped struggling in John’s grasp–whether from seeing Moriarty, or the rest of the scene John didn’t know.

“We had to give him some of Sherlock’s heroin stash to get him out,” John said. “Now where. Is. Sherlock?”

Jim blinked several times. “Really, Johnny, I knew you were loyal, but I had no idea how fierce you were under that fuzzy jumper exterior.”

John moved the gun slightly and fired past Jim’s ear into the concrete wall behind him– he recentered the gun on Jim’s forehead. The man in the mask dove for cover. Mycroft jerked; John let go of him and he crashed to the floor with a groan.

“That will have gotten his attention, I suspect,” Jim said calmly.

Sherlock came in through the other doorway with a gun drawn. “What’s going on?”

“Sherlock?” He was standing there–unharmed, unrestrained–with a gun.

“John?!” Sherlock looked horrified.

Jim just smiled, “It’s a reunion. Isn’t that sweet? Now, everyone puts their guns away and you boys can help put naughty Mycroft up on that table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to say something here. John REALLY has never liked Mycroft. his first meeting was exactly as in canon, and Mycroft has NEVER made it clear to John that he cares deeply for his brother. In addition, Sherlock was DEAD, John saw him die, and he has been alive and back for only a very few days.... John is NOT rational, and is terrified of losing Sherlock again.  
> and if Mycroft paid one flicker of attention to "ordinary people" he would have known better than to push a frightened John Watson.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's side of things...  
> TW: past torture, past rape, PTSD, panic attacks, flashbacks, threats of torture none of it graphic, per se but its there.

After he’d slipped out of the flat and past the guards Sherlock had arrived at a small café, which he hadn’t expected. It was populated by people dressed in a variety of clothing his brother would completely disapprove of; Sherlock blended in–half the people here had black hair and black clothes.

He didn’t know what else to do, so he got a coffee. _Never trust the tea at a coffee shop._ His napkin had words written on it:  Second door past the bathroom. He nodded and walked back. There was a door out, and employees on their smoke break.

 _Fuck it._ He cadged a smoke off one of them and lit up… _Heaven._ Eventually, a girl walked up and, under cover of offering him another, said, “Come with me.” He did. They moved through the crowd and went through another shop out the back and he got handed off to someone with a work van.

The warehouse he was taken to was ordinary enough. Jim was talking to a man who was setting up tattoo equipment.

“Finish setting up.” Jim got up from his chair. “Come along darling,” he waved at Sherlock. “I have someplace for you to wait.”

Sherlock felt the weight of the gun pressing against him getting heavier. _I shouldn’t have it, Jim would– I should shoot him and it would be over–Sebastian–_

“You can keep the gun, Sherlock, I don’t care,” Jim said idly as he was escorted into a small room… that locked… with a cot…

~

He was strapped in to a cot as he went through withdrawal–screaming–his brother sitting calmly by his bed, telling him he’d be alright.

He was in a drug house, on a stained mattress as the gang took turns with him while he begged for them to stop, while he begged for a fix…

He was standing in a room that looked like a ship, and then Sebastian was forcing him to his knees. _I’m going to die here…_

He was on another cot, the mattress long gone, as he stared at the wall, and felt his heartbeat slowing. _This would be the end…_

He was in a jail cell while the guard forced himself on him on the cot, before his brother bailed him out…

He was in his brother’s house, on a clean cot with too many restraints, waiting for his brother to put a scalpel in him….

~

Jim spun as Sherlock screamed: it was a strangled scream of complete terror and hopelessness. Sherlock was sliding down the wall with his eyes open staring at nothing, his hands thrown up to defend himself.

“Sherlock?” Jim edged closer. No response. Sherlock was shaking and curling into a ball.

He carefully slipped Sherlock’s gun away from him. _What on earth?_ Jim tried to tug him over to the cot…

_Cot. Solid wall. Locked room. Oh._

Jim slid down to the floor next to Sherlock and pulled him over closer. He heard him crying and mumbling while he shook; words like “hit” and “stop” and “don’t” tumbled out of him; then, “My brother will bail me out.”; then, a while later, a shattered cry of “Don’t! Not me, you wouldn’t...”

Jim sighed, “Poor darling. You really trusted him, didn’t you? I think I’m actually sorry… How peculiar.”

~

Jim had said he would let him go home, but it didn’t make sense. Still, he was dressed again, and he and Jim were back in the van, and this time Sebastian was driving. Jim had him pack the violin, so he wasn’t coming back. He just hoped it would be quick.

“I’m not taking you out to be shot, Sherlock,” Jim said, sounding amused. “I’m returning you– sort of.”

“It’s the ‘sort of’ that worries me most.”

Jim just shrugged, “I’ve gotten rather fond of you, oddly enough. In any case, you’re mine, and I take reasonably good care of my things as long as they behave.”

Sherlock had no idea how to respond to that, so he didn’t: he just sat quietly for the drive. It shocked him when they started turning into neighborhoods he knew…

“Isn’t this where my brother lives?”

“Yes, that’s where we’re going.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see. It’s all about Mycroft now, anyway.” Jim hummed happily.

They parked at a remove and walked up to Mycroft’s house. His violin was left back in the van, as were his other clothes. Sebastian kept a hand on his arm, and he tried desperately not to flinch. Sebastian never looked at him directly.

Jim punched in a long code and unlocked the door.

“I would have thought my brother had better security.”

“Hacking people is always the way to go, darling–I got the codes almost before he did.”

They walked in. Jim looked around with a frown. “He’s been drinking again.”

Sebastian nodded, “Going through a lot of scotch in the last few weeks.”

“Sloppy,” Jim sighed.

Sherlock had looked around. _Yes, the signs were there if you knew to look: less food; more alcohol._

They went to the basement and Jim opened a hidden door in the back of the cleaning closet. _Really quite well done._

And there was the room.

It looked exactly like the photos, except perhaps a bit dustier. There were cabinets, and a work table with wheels, and one chair, and a cot bed with more restraints than anyone could use…

Jim caught his questioning look and smiled, “So I could be restrained in a variety of positions. Usually, though,” he walked over to a drawer and pulled out metal cuffs and chains, “he put me in these, so I could be showered, and could crawl after him."

Sebastian’s hand on his arm started to tighten; Jim noticed and snapped, “Sebastian? What did I tell you?!”

Sebastian let go and simply moved to block the door.

“Now then, Sherlock, Sebastian won’t bother you–I’m right here– but I need you to strip. Put your clothes in the second drawer there.”

Sherlock was shaking, but he did. “I did what you–“

“I’m not going to hurt you, Sherlock, neither is Sebastian,” Jim said very soothingly. “I need to give you a shot.”

Jim apparently took pity on him, and sighed, “You’re getting a paralytic. Just so you stay put, alright?”

“I stayed put in the cell.”

“You’d bolt, and in any event it would ruin Mycroft’s surprise. Arm.”

Sherlock let himself be given the shot. He wondered what kind of horror they had planned. _Gutting him? Having his brother arrive just as he died?_

He felt heavier and slid sideways. Sebastian put him on the bed and arranged his body. He felt Sebastian stroke down his stomach and heard Jim snap at him to stop.

Someone sat on the bed and started petting his hair– _Jim._

“I’m leaving you here for Mycroft to find, Sherlock. You have about an hour for the drugs to wear off enough to move, and Mycroft will be home in a very few minutes. You obviously don’t understand, do you?”

He heard sounds of someone moving things, setting things up, and a suspicious metallic sound.

“Mycroft is going to find you here as a present. No one knows you’re alive. No one knows you’re HERE, certainly. He knows that…” Jim stopped petting his hair and patted it back into shape. “I’m giving it nearly fifty-fifty odds whether he closes the restraints and tries to keep you, or runs fleeing like he did from Donovan.”

_No. My brother wouldn’t… No matter what he did to Jim, he wouldn’t… It wouldn’t even be tempting…_

“I still say he’ll carve him up before you could stop him. Waste of a pretty lot of skin, if you ask me,” Sebastian grumbled.

“Oh, I don’t think he’d start with anything too serious,” Jim answered.

Jim leaned down and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. “If you don’t walk out of here by tonight, darling, I’ll come back and fetch you. You’re mine; I won’t let him damage you too much.”

_My brother would never hurt me. He loves me. Everything he’s done has been for my own good._

_Hasn’t it?_

_He didn’t enjoy listening to me scream and beg and thrash through withdrawal… did he? He stayed in the room to try to comfort me, I remember…_

Sherlock realized they’d gone. He kept trying to move.

_Footsteps: my brother’s custom shoes._

Mycroft walked up and felt his pulse at the neck. _Oh, he doesn’t know if I’m alive, he must be so frightened_.

Mycroft’s hand trailed down his arm and lifted his hand. _Why? Checking something?_ His hand brushed the injection area.

Mycroft stepped back and hissed. He walked away toward the table; Sherlock heard the wheels move slightly.

Suddenly dread pooled in his gut. _Why hadn’t Mycroft said anything? Calm down, he thinks you’re unconscious, that’s all… Why wasn’t he sounding glad?_

_“I’m giving it nearly fifty-fifty odds whether he closes the restraints and tried to keep you, or runs fleeing like he did from Donovan,” Jim had said…_

“He’d be safer….” He heard Mycroft whisper quietly. _Oh, God, no… not my brother… not to me…_

The sound of a scalpel clattered against the table, and he heard Mycroft gasp and run.

Sherlock was past crying by the time he could move again. He got dressed, slowly, and while he was putting his shoes on he saw the paper, lying on the ground where it had fallen. He made his way over and read it.

_“Mycroft my dear fallen angel,_

_As you can see, your brother is entirely unharmed–physically– except for a few bruises one of my men left on him. I apologize for that, I intended to leave you quite the blank canvas._

_He’s a gift. Do what you want with him– after all, what was it you said to me? He’s dead: no one will ever look for him._

_JM”_

Sherlock put the note in his pocket and stared at the scalpel lying abandoned on the table… He felt numb.

He finally managed to get up and climb the stairs. He found Mycroft sitting in his chair, staring at the fire, one hand reaching down as if…

_As if to pet at my hair, or Jim’s._

~

Sherlock came back to himself, eventually. Jim kept his arm around him.

“Can you get up? I didn’t think I should call Sebastian.”

Sherlock nodded. He struggled a bit but got to his feet.

“Help me up?” Jim held his hands up: Sherlock did. He looked blank. “Come on, let’s get you to another room, alright?”

He got him to the chair in the accountant’s office. “Do you want a sedative?”

“Do you have one?”

Jim looked at him thoughtfully, “I carry them for my panic attacks, and if you so much as breathe a word of that I won’t leave enough to make shoes out of.”

“You?”

“Surprised?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Jim got into a pocket and shook one out of a small bottle. “Tolerances?”

“A bit higher than my body weight would suggest. They use them for withdrawal, sometimes.” Sherlock shivered.

“Take the whole pill then.” Jim got him a bottle of water. “I have work to do until your brother caves in and shows up to get his tattoo. Will you be alright?”

Sherlock nodded and then asked, “A question?” Jim nodded at him. “You… You wouldn’t have left me there…?”

Jim shook his head. “No. If you hadn’t come out by the time it got dark we would have gone in and retrieved you,” he smiled darkly, “and Mycroft.”

“Why?”

Jim walked back and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “I take better care of my things than he does. You belong to me, Sherlock.” Jim put down his gun. “Here, I took it away from you when you panicked.”

Jim left him in the room with his gun. After a while someone came in with takeout food for him and suggested he get a nap. The tranquilizer was making him sleepy anyway. As he was dozing off, he couldn’t help but think how horrible it was that he was trusting Jim to protect him from his brother…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> among other things, Sherlock is remembering the events of chapter 12 from Unwanted Attention (part 1) if you want the conversation between the brothers again, you can read it there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back at present, in a make shift tattoo parlor....

*

Mycroft was woozily threatening… something… from the floor.

Sherlock looked dubiously at Jim. “What are you doing to him?”

John finally snapped out his shock enough to stutter out, “Sherlock? You’re alright?!”

“I’m fine, John. I left you a note… Why are you here? And… uh…” He stared at Mycroft.

“He told me you were kidnapped and then tried to tell me to ignore it,” John muttered, the adrenaline leaving his system now that Sherlock was alright.

Jim just grinned, “He threatened Mycroft, put him down on the floor, and wrenched his arm. I never would have imagined it.”

Sherlock looked a bit stunned. John muttered, “Yes, well, you were missing.” He then glared at Jim. “What’s going on?”

“Table?” Jim said helpfully.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sherlock said as John, Sherlock, and the man in the medical mask, all hauled the rather limply slithery Mycroft onto the table. Sherlock produced a handcuff key from somewhere and unlocked him.

“Since he’s being SUCH an uncooperative person, you can handcuff him to the table, too.” Jim sang out.

“Don’t push it,” John growled at him. “I still owe you for the explosive vest.”

“Still sore about that? It was ages ago.”

“It was LAST YEAR!”

“Like I said,” Jim shrugged.

Sherlock put a hand on John. “Don’t…”

John grumbled, “As to what’s wrong with him, Sebastian–“ he felt Sherlock tense and glanced over.

Sherlock stared at him wide eyed, “Are you alright?!”

Jim, using a much more soothing voice, said, “Sebie wouldn’t dream of it: I made myself quite clear; also, I don’t think the good doctor is his type.”

“I’m not going to take on a man who carried Mycroft down the wall barehanded, if that’s what you’re asking. And as to what happened: we gave Mycroft a dose of your damned heroin,” John frowned. “Third floorboard from the foot of your bed.”

“How did you find that?!”

Jim shrugged, “We searched your flat when I stole your violin, darling. In any event, Johnny drugged Mycroft, which is definitely novel.”

He walked over and started handcuffing Mycroft to the table.

“Why shouldn’t I shoot you right now?” John growled.

“Lots of reasons, but among them because Sebie inherits Sherlock if you do?” Sherlock twitched. “But in any event, I have no reason to be a problem to you two and your happy little domesticity. My attentions are elsewhere.” He untied the scarf, now rather sodden, and pulled it out of Mycroft’s mouth. “Do you want this back? It’s rather …”

John yanked it back and then made a face.

“Now, we have a slightly different problem,” Jim said, looking mostly at Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock asked dubiously.

“Well, originally, you see, Mycroft was supposed to get a tattoo like a good boy and go on home–“

Mycroft tried to say something and started hacking. Jim rather casually got a bottle of water and started giving him small sips.

“But I doubt he’s going to be reasonable about John drugging him and delivering him.”

Sherlock looked worried at John and then frowned. “Tattoo? Is that all?”

Jim smiled. “My associate here,” he indicated the nervous man in the face mask, ”wasn’t my first choice, but my FIRST choice doesn’t even know I exist, and is a lovely, reputable, licensed tattooist that Mycroft was supposed to visit. This fellow, on the other hand, owes me.”

“Not doing…” Mycroft’s voice was slurred slightly; Jim ignored him.

“But I’m concerned that he may try to cause some harm to your friend here.” Jim smiled, “And I can’t have that, you know. He’s far too good a hostage to let your brother kill him.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft and went very still. Mycroft and Sherlock trading looks that communicated more than John could see.

John looked utterly perplexed. “Why are you kidnapping Mycroft to make him get a tattoo?”

Jim snapped his fingers at the man in the facemask. “Out. Wait outside.”

He bolted.

Jim shrugged at John and took off his shirt, carefully hanging it over a chair. He had scars all over both arms. John could identify burns and cuts–some of them looked like they were vaguely decorative; most of them just looked painful. Jim pulled off his undershirt. Standing out among all the other scars on his chest was a large script “M”.

John had seen enough scarification done by peoples in the East to know that must have hurt, and had something rubbed into it to make it stand out like that. He hissed.

“He did that first,” Jim said, running a finger over the “M” lightly. “The rest, later.”

He turned his back on them. Sherlock gasped along with John. There were what looked like whip or slash marks all over his back, and a spiraling triskele on his shoulder.

Jim turned back. “Mycroft’s work, most of it,” he said calmly at John, then glanced at Sherlock. “I forgot you never got a good look at my back.”

“Mycroft did that?” John whispered. “When Sebastian said he cut you… I didn’t…”

“Sebie was very angry, and Mycroft wasn’t there, but Sherlock was.” Jim shrugged. “I thought he could handle it; unfortunately there was an incident and he snapped.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, “Except it was obvious what he wanted well before that.”

Jim nodded. “Yes, but Sebie doesn’t usually have the anger over my mistreatment behind that.”

John was getting tightly angry again, but pulled it back. “Sherlock… do you believe your brother did that?”

“I know he did.” Sherlock’s voice was cold.

“I did,” Mycroft said quietly from the table.

“WHY?!”

Jim just waved a hand at them. “Psychology lessons later.” He walked over to Mycroft. “You are going to leave John alone, or else you will be leaving here with me and never see them again. Understood?”

“Understood,” he said resignedly.

“And for causing all this fuss, you’re getting more work done.” Jim held up a finger. “And you’re lucky at that, Mycroft. Next time I tell you to do something, you DO it.”

“You didn’t even kidnap him, did you?” Mycroft asked tiredly.

“I told you, Mycroft, it’s always so much more satisfying when people do it to themselves… I just phoned him.”

Mycroft managed to focus his eyes on Sherlock. “Why did you go?”

“John.” Sherlock said, “You.” He shook his head, “I don’t want John getting hurt.” He paused and looked at Mycroft for a long while. “I don’t even want YOU getting hurt.”

John was looking back and forth, wondering why Sherlock sounded so much colder to Mycroft. _Something had changed._

“Yes, well, getting HURT is going to happen.” Jim smiled, “I’m just much better at it.” He looked thoughtfully at Sherlock and John. “Oh, go run on home and make out on the sofa.”

Sherlock made a face. “That’s–“

Jim shrugged and looked at John, “He’s an idiot, ignore him. He’d love it.”

“That isn’t true and you–“ Sherlock protested.

Jim just laughed, “Your room was bugged, Sherlock. I know the names you called out in your wet dreams, even if you don’t.” Jim made shooing gestures. “There’s a cab waiting.”

John stood blinking and stunned at THAT image– _Sherlock HAD wet dreams? And he called MY name?_ –as Sherlock dragged him out.

“Don’t listen to him–“ Sherlock was saying as the door shut.

Jim put his undershirt and shirt back on.

“Sherlock has little interest…” Mycroft trailed off

“NEITHER of you have much interest, or you would have done something about it while you had me,” Jim said calmly. “Sherlock at least kisses well, once you get him going.”

“You took advantage of him?” Mycroft tried to growl but it came out as a sort ofwhine.

“No, but I did kiss him.”

Jim finished putting his shirt back together and called the tattooist back in.

“Lucky you, Mycroft. All that heroin in your system? You probably won’t feel it,” he looked thoughtful, “or, if you do, you won’t care.” Jim brightened up. “There IS that… might as well take advantage…”

He spoke quietly to the tattooist, and Mycroft felt his leg get strapped down.

“What?”

“Bottom of the foot, Mycroft - penalty for being late.” Jim smiled at the horrified look on his face.

The tattooist looked unhappy but started to work. Mycroft felt insane amounts of pain, even through the drug haze.

“Oh, stop whining, Mycroft. You can dish it out but you can’t take it? You did say a man should have new feet, didn’t you? Just be grateful you don’t get the entire Chesterton quote on your foot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a fair bit of conversation happens with the two Holmes boys exchanging stares. including "you were going to KEEP me, Mycroft!"


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft had started out swearing he wouldn’t scream–he was screaming by the end of the first tattoo. By comparison, the second one– the monogram on his chest– merely stung. The adrenaline seemed to have burned the heroin out of his system as well–by the end of it, he was shaking, sick, and miserable.

At some point the tattooist had left, and Jim was there with some larger, looming presence.

“It’s your own fault, Mycroft,” Jim said pleasantly. “If you’d just turned up at the shop and had it done–“

Mycroft insulted his ancestry, ethnicity, religion, and sexual habits.

Jim just smirked. “My parents were, in fact, miserable excuses for human beings–I can’t tell you any further back than that; truthfully, I can’t swear that my father was related, although I think so; I don’t think there’s any question as to my being Irish, and we’ve survived you lot so far; I’m at best marginally Catholic, and you hardly have grounds for complaining, given your own lack of adherence to COE doctrine; and as to my sex life? Yes, I’ve done every single one of those things, although only a few were worth repeating.”

Mycroft gaped at him.

“Now, since you managed to annoy me and got an extra penalty tattoo, you’ll be laid up for a bit. Pity, that. I was planning on just ignoring you until the next time I needed some amusement.”

“So I’m just amusing to you?” Mycroft knew he was making a mistake the instant the words left his mouth, but pain loosened his tongue apparently. “You were amusing enough to me when I made you scream.”

Jim just tilted his head at him like he was ever so slightly confusing, but the large looming presence behind him growled. Mycroft’s head snapped up and finally took in the military bearing and the intensely protective stance. This was the man who had come in with the handcuffs, carried him down the wall, the guard who attacked Sherlock…

“Sebie dear? Do try to stay calm; I need you to carry him, and I don’t want him all scuffed up–yet.” Jim smirked at Mycroft. “Oh, do calm down, Mycroft: you really aren’t Sebie’s taste in men–he prefers them tall and lean and intellectual.” He smirked, “You’re tall.”

“So he inherits Sherlock from you? How convenient if he kills you.”

“Sebastian?” Jim’s eyes widened in complete disbelief. He looked back at Sebastian, “Tiger, would you prefer to get Sherlock, or me?”

Sebastian laughed. “I’ll gut Sherlock for you and make a rug out of him, if you like.”

“Hmmm.” Jim leaned back into the man. “Maybe a Mycroft skin rug, if he doesn’t learn better manners.”

“With pleasure.”

Mycroft looked at the gleam in the man’s eyes and realized he meant it.

Jim just smiled, “You aren’t the only sadist in the room, darling, just the least experienced. Bring him along Sebie.”

Mycroft was unlocked from the table, and immediately struggled to get away.

Jim laughed. “Let him.”

He hadn’t even put weight on his foot fully when searing agony took him to the floor.

“Awwww, Mikey, does it hurt?” Jim sang down sarcastically at him. “You cut both of mine up much worse than that, and expected me to walk to the showers and stand on them that evening; surely you can handle a nice, cleanly bandaged tattoo?”

Mycroft got hauled to his feet by Sebastian and stood there, shaking, balanced on one foot.

Jim just smiled at him. “One foot– one part of one foot– and you can’t handle it.” He shook his head. “Pick him up, Sebie” He was carried out of the building and thrown back into the boot of the car. Sebastian handcuffed his hands and feet again, and they closed him in and drove off.

*

John and Sherlock dragged themselves back into the flat.

“John, I missed you and I was worried about you; if I said anything in my sleep, I suspect it was more to do with–“

“YES, Sherlock, I got it, thank you.” _Fifteen times telling me I don’t want to have sex with you is QUITE enough._

“We’ll need to erase the recording,” Sherlock nodded at the answering machine.

“More to the point,” John sighed, “the flat is bugged.”

“Again?”

“What do you mean ‘Again’?”

“Mycroft bugged it before.”

“Well JIM bugged it now. That’s how he knew what I had done to Mycroft.”

“Oh. Hmm. Yes, that’s a problem. Well, I’m exhausted and so are you; I suspect it can wait until morning.” Sherlock shrugged, “It’s not like it matters right now.”

John chewed on his lip. “What do you think he’ll do to Mycroft?”

“Tattoo him and throw him out, I expect.”

“You think so?”

“I spent the past… well, months at least, with him almost daily. He’s actually quite predictable if you have the correct information.” Sherlock frowned, “The problem being the correct information. For instance, if you didn’t know what Mycroft had done, then you couldn’t predict this behavior at all.”

“If anyone did half of that to me, I would have shot them; I honestly don’t understand why Mycroft is alive.” John shook his head. “That… Those scars were horrific.”

“Mmm. I believe that is an ‘insufficient information’ issue, because I wouldn’t have expected Jim to let him live, either, originally. It was very clear that he had no intention to kill him, however, but I don’t know why.” Sherlock frowned. “I believe a part of it may be simply demonstrating superior control. Mycroft gave in to his base nature–to temptation–without proper consideration.” He sighed, “Jim may be giving in to his interests, but he definitely isn’t being careless.”

“You knew about Mycroft? I mean, you weren’t surprised…”

“My brother thinks throwing you in a car, driving you to a warehouse, and threatening you is a good way to get acquainted, John.”

“Point.”

“He had a great deal of therapy as a child,” Sherlock admitted. “I don’t know that it changed his interests, but he learned to control his behavior,” he paused, “better than I did.”

“I don’t imagine you would do that to someone.”

“No. That wasn’t my specific issue.” Sherlock changed the subject abruptly. “Sebastian was here?”

“Yes, he climbed in the bedroom window, apparently. That’s how he got out.” John frowned, “Did you know there are handholds–“

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“So I could sneak out?”

“Oh, of course, how silly of me.” John sighed. “Well, apparently Sebastian can climb down the wall while carrying Mycroft on his back. It was rather intimidating.”

Sherlock looked at a spot on the wall, “He was my guard, until he attacked me. Then he was transferred and I never saw him again.”

“What did he do?”

“Oh, it was obvious he intended to rape me and likely beat me significantly. In the course of my trying to fight, he yanked me off my feet by my ankle chain. The ankle injury was the worst, and if it was a fracture it was not a bad one. I also had bruising from falling and from him forcing me to my knees over the bed–“

John looked horrified. “My GOD, Sherlock... I’m sorry… If I had known, I would have shot him!”

“Jim actually fired off a pistol.” Sherlock said, somewhat distantly. Then he frowned, “Actually, he took some rather foolish chances after that. If I had been clearer headed I could have gotten the keys. He actually seemed upset, and possibly concerned about me. It was strange.”

“You… You and he seemed to be getting along…”

“I never wanted to see him tortured, just stopped.” Sherlock sighed, “And he treated me very carefully when I was his prisoner. He showed me what my brother did to him–at least, I saw his chest; after that, I was waiting to die, really.” He looked off into the distance. “I think it might have been kinder if he had killed me, sometimes. I wouldn’t have to know what Mycroft did… I wouldn’t have to think about JIM being the one who was kinder.”

John didn’t know what else to do, so he brought over some biscuits and milk and sat down on the sofa with him. Sherlock ended up leaning into him and falling asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft was hauled out of the car and into a house.  He was so out of it after the tattoos and drugs and rattling around in the boot that he was actually being carried through the door before he realized:

_This is MY house._

“We’ll tuck him into my old room,”  Jim said calmly, as Sebastian casually carried him along.

Mycroft tried to struggle and Jim just put a hand on his foot. “I could hang you in the shower by a collar, Mycroft– don’t give me an excuse.”

It was obvious they’d been in the house before– _Of course, when they’d brought Sherlock in._

“I thought he wasn’t allowed near Sherlock.”

“While Sherlock is awake? No. He panics–at least, when I’m not there.” Jim smiled wickedly, “Same reason I don’t want Sebie around YOU unattended, even if you aren’t his type: you’d break.”

“You obviously intend me to anyway.”

He was put down on the bed, the remainder of his clothing stripped off, and locked into it.

“Really? You think so Mycroft?” Jim laughed. “Oh, I don’t want you to BREAK darling, that’s too easy.  I want you destroyed.  I want you to FALL.”

Sebastian was looking at him: Mycroft could see what he wanted to do, and it was terrifying to depend on JIM not letting him do it.

“Sebie darling?”

“Sir?”

“One of the things I always wondered when I was down here, was how comfortable his bedroom was… shall we go mess up his sheets?”

Sebastian grinned wickedly, “Yes, Sir.”

And they went out, leaving Mycroft grinding his teeth, first angrily and then perplexed _.  They were having sex? What could Jim see in Sebastian? And why would he bother?  They were thinking about having sex in m my bed? Why?_

The next morning, Sebastian hauled him to the showers, and yes, he was forced to go through the showers just like Jim had, and no, he couldn’t bear to put his foot down. He ended up leaning against the wall balanced on one foot to avoid hanging from his collar.

Afterwards he was dragged upstairs, only to find Jim eating breakfast… from his supplies.

“Hello, Mycroft. Sleep well? I always found that bed hideously uncomfortable, but your bed was lovely.”

“I’ll have it burned.”

“Whatever suits you, darling,” he shrugged, nibbling on a bit of toast. Sebastian put him down at Jim’s feet. He started to get up and Jim shoved him back down. “With your ankles chained together? And you were whining about your foot? Do be realistic, Mycroft.”

Sebastian  puttered around in his kitchen for a bit before coming back with a large breakfast platter for himself, and a smaller plate that he put down near Jim… and Jim started spearing bits on a fork and holding them out at him.

Mycroft forced himself to eat.  He knew it was among the lesser things he’d done to the man, but he hadn’t realized quite how GALLING it was.

And yes, he had to crawl when Jim went over to a different room.  He really had no option since walking would put his foot down.  _Apparently the rug burned your knees- who knew?_

Jim idly petting at his hair was what finally made him snap.

The pure fury managed to get him on his feet, ignoring the pain briefly. He got his hands around Jim’s throat for one brief moment before something bashed him in the back of the head, and then hauled him away.

_Oh, right.  Sebastian._

“Mycroft, really, you disappoint me,” Jim said sadly. “I managed to act cowed and domesticated for WEEKS– you can’t even manage for a day?”

“I don’t have any practice at it,” he snarled, hanging from Sebastian’s grip.

“Hmm…” Jim looked him over, and shrugged. “Honestly? I’m beginning to wonder if you’re worth the effort.”

“He’s not,” Sebastian said firmly.

“Sebie, be a dear and go put him back in his room?” Jim waved him off, “No touching!”

It wasn’t until he’d been dragged down and reattached to the bed that Mycroft realized: _I’d been left alone with Sebastian.  Hadn’t Jim said he couldn’t risk it?_   He went into his mind palace and started considering. If Jim considered that he was “not worth it”, then he also wasn’t worth protecting from Sebastian– or keeping alive.  Whatever plans he had were the entire reason that the blackmail wasn’t released– at least not yet– and he wasn’t tortured considerably more.

And what did that mean for Sherlock?

Mycroft spent the day in anxious worrying.

~

Jim spent the day picturing Mycroft worrying, and pretending to be Mycroft. After all, who questions it when the texts, and the emails, all come from the right numbers? From Mycroft’s house?   Jim had a grand time.  At the end of the day, he was laughing with Sebastian about how he’d probably done a better job than Mycroft had lately, judging from how many people commented that they were “glad he was feeling better.”

He had Sebastian shower Mycroft again and bring him up.

“Well, Mikey,”  he grinned at the man flinching at his name,  “apparently I run your little empire as well as you do… Oh, and Anthea wanted to remind you to buy presents for some people in your office.  I don’t actually know them, so I thought you might want to.”

“You’ve been WHAT?!”

“Running things,” he said innocently. “After all, it’s your computer…”

Mycroft clenched his fists and shook from anger _.  It was absolutely hysterical_. Sebastian forced him down and Jim tried feeding him dinner. Mycroft was having none of it.  Jim just laughed and gave it to Sebastian.

“You won’t starve in a day, Mycroft.” Sebastian and Jim watched a movie,. Sebastian complaining bitterly about how the combat and gun play was depicted, Mycroft mostly tuning them out as best he could.  He clearly expected to go back downstairs again…

Jim had new plans.

_Since Mycroft wasn’t going to be sensible, and it wasn’t being entertaining destroying him, he could at least be funny, and I’ll figure out the rest later… Perhaps… just perhaps, he might be worth rebuilding? I haven’t rebuilt anyone since Sebastian._

Sebastian carried him up to the master bedroom. Mycroft oddly seemed to have no clue why.

“Well, first of all, let’s moisturize those tattoos some more,” Jim said cheerfully.

Mycroft made all sorts of fuss as they cleaned them both and rubbed moisturizer into his foot. Then he had Sebastian tie him down to the bed.  Mycroft squawked at them until Jim threatened to gag him.

He rubbed moisturizer into the chest tattoo, admiring it: _the artist had done excellent work, really_. “You need to keep the tattoo moisturized, so the scabbing and so on stays modest.” Jim smiled.

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, you could end up with an ugly tattoo, or even scarring and infection.” Jim shrugged.

“I’m having them removed as soon as I get loose.”

Jim laughed, “First you’d have to admit you have them, THEN you’d have to get the lasering done… which only works sometimes anyway, and it hurts too.” Jim smirked, “Or you can get a cover tattoo… You know, more?”

Mycroft  shuddered. _Wimp._

“However… since you aren’t going to be any fun at all for me to destroy, I may as well break you. A pity, I actually thought you were worth something.” Jim idly wondered what he would sound like when they both had him.

“So you decided to torture me here instead of the basement?”

“Hmm? No, Sebie and I are bored, and we haven’t had a threesome in ages.”

Mycroft looked baffled at them. He kept looking baffled until Sebastian started rubbing lubrication onto places other than his tattoos.  Jim waited until the shocked and horrified look crossed his face, and leaned in and kissed him, cutting off the shout with his tongue.

He held the back of Mycroft’s head and forced him into the kiss.  He never even tried to bite, just to pull away. Sebastian started stroking him harder…

Jim was very good at reading people, and while Mycroft was a difficult man to read, he had all the advantages here.  He was feeling his pulse, his reactions, looking for what he liked…

Jim pulled back with a sudden frown. “Sebie? Stop.”

Sebastian stopped of course, leaving Mycroft panting and panicked and hard.  Jim put a hand on his chest, right next to the tattoo. And considered… _If that was true, Mycroft was more of a blank canvas to work with… maybe?_

“Change of plans, Sebie. Leave him here like this. I want you to fuck me: do a good job of it.”

Sebastian brightened up, “Of course, Sir.”

“Make sure he can watch everything.” _And I’ll watch him._

“Of course, Sir.”

Jim smiled down at Mycroft , still terrified and confused. “Watch and learn, Mycroft.  Let’s see if we can melt some of that ice, shall we?”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You simply don’t think of the man torturing you as a virgin, Jim supposed.

Mycroft watched in horrified fascination as Sebastian Moran kissed and licked–and bit–Jim Moriarty.

He spent time on most of the scars he’d given Jim. Every now and then his eyes tracked to Mycroft and he growled. Mycroft pulled away as best as he could.

Eventually, Sebastian was using his mouth to do… other things… Mycroft shuddered and tried to look away, but even when he managed to close his eyes, Jim’s pleased noises, and the sounds of it, intruded.

~

Jim watched Mycroft carefully as Sebastian took his time. He was possessively going over all the marks Mycroft had left, worshipping Jim with his teeth and his tongue.

Sebastian was such a devoted man. _Of course, I should know: I made him that way._

Sebastian’s talented tongue started working lower, until finally he got to work, sucking and licking and making it hard for Jim to think, really. Sebastian was magnificently good at this, but Jim kept a part of himself watching Mycroft.

No, he’d never seen this. Perhaps a glimpse here and there–porn was hard to escape, really, for anyone who used the internet–but he’d never seen it.

 _Of course he’d never done it._ Jim had realized at the last minute that he’d had the nicknames wrong. _The Iceman was the Virgin, not Sherlock. You simply don’t think of the man torturing you as a virgin,_ Jim supposed.

Jim felt the orgasm rip through him, and distantly saw Mycroft’s face–he would have giggled more, but it bothered Sebastian.

Jim rolled over, practically on top of Mycroft for a moment. Mycroft was hard, but the stunned look on his face was so funny. Jim kissed him lazily before he slid away.

“Let’s turn the other way, Sebastian. Mycroft can’t watch my pretty ass getting plowed if we face this way.”

Sebastian practically glowed: he was so possessive. They turned feet to the head board, Jim moving down so that Mycroft’s face would be practically next to this. Jim started giggling more.

“Sir? Jim?” Sebastian sounded worried.

“Just the look on his face.”

Sebastian glanced back and down, at the stunned expression on Mycroft’s face, and cracked up. He actually fell onto Jim, and they lay there laughing for a moment.

“You see, Sebie? I couldn’t help it–I wasn’t laughing at you, darling.” Jim reached back and stroked Sebastian to hardness again. “Nothing to laugh at on you, darling.”

“I told you he wasn’t worth your time. Hell, even Sherlock is better.”

“True, but I already damaged that plan, and with you scaring him that way I doubt we’d ever have him in bed willingly. Pity. We’ll find new playthings.”

Sebastian started working Jim open with his fingers, using the lube he always had on him. _At least now I know why Mycroft didn’t have any lube in his room_. And Jim moaned–perhaps a bit louder than he usually did, for Mycroft’s benefit. He glanced back as Sebastian was lining up to push into him.

He had to bite the mattress to stifle the giggles that time. The look on Mycroft’s face was so very, very funny… and then Jim stopped thinking about him at all, as Sebastian made him scream with every stroke.

They slept next to him, a tangle of bodies. Mycroft didn’t sleep at all, Jim was certain.

They put Mycroft back in the basement, and cleaned up all the evidence that they had been there: not the FACT that they had been there, but the sheets were washed, and any body fluids erased, destroyed beyond evidence.

Jim contemplated calling several people, but eventually… he sent a text message to Greg.

*

Greg Lestrad got a text message to come to Mycroft’s home–and the address. It was a shock. He saw Mycroft at work, of course, and he’d been the one who got sent those photos, taunting him. To this day Greg wondered how anyone found out his address, but…

He pulled up in his civilian car, and was shocked to find the door unlocked and slightly open.

He looked around in confusion. “Mycroft? Mr. Holmes?”

His phone beeped a text message from Mycroft’s number: “In the basement.”

He found the basement door and went down. It was a meticulously organized basement with everything on shelves, labeled… but there was bright, bright light coming from one end of the room. He walked over, long training having caused him to draw his gun without thinking, gone quiet.

_This was bad. This was very bad._

There was a cleaning supply closet open, but past the neatly organized mops, hanging on their hooks, and the supplies, and the smell of bleach… the back of the closet was open as well… like an old bomb shelter.

Light was pouring out of it: it was bright enough to hurt.

He walked over and looked in. There was a room, designed to hold people in, and a body cuffed on the bed in pajamas… It took Greg more than a moment to identify the man without his three piece suit, but it was Mycroft.

“Mr. Holmes?”

His head snapped over and his eyes opened in shock. He hadn’t heard me coming? The man was usually worse than Sherlock…

“Oh… Oh, I thought they would at least kill me,” he said quietly.

Greg broke from his shock and came over, looking for the trap, looking for …

_This wasn’t an abandoned house, or a storage unit, or a shipping container abandoned under a bridge… This room was a fixture, and it was in Mycroft’s home…_

“You…” Greg always felt so stupid around the Holmes. “You interrogate people HERE?”

“One. Once,” Mycroft sighed, and suddenly looked so much older. “I’ve been a fool, and I’m hopelessly compromised. Can you untie me, please?”

“I should call for evidence…”

“The only evidence here will be against me, I’m afraid, if that.”

Greg untied him. Helped him sit up.

“I can’t put weight on my foot, I’m afraid–or, rather, I won’t.”

Greg looked at his foot and gasped. There was a cloudy black triskele tattooed on the bottom of his foot: it looked new.

“I’ve been told to moisturize it,” he said somewhat distantly.

“Yeah, you have to with new…” Greg saw the moisturizer sitting on the table just aside. “Is that safe?”

“Probably.”

He handed it to him; Mycroft sniffed it and rubbed it into his foot, gently and gingerly. He then undid the top of his pajamas and rubbed it into a tattoo on his chest…a J, and an M intertwined, with a crown over it.

“Someone did that to you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who? Do you have any clues?”

“I know exactly who is responsible, although I don’t know the tattooist. It wasn’t his fault: his family was under threat.” Mycroft stood up; Greg helped him out of the room, hobbling and wincing. It took them forever to get up the stairs from the basement, Mycroft eventually collapsing in a kitchen chair. Greg tried to help him to a big, comfortable chair in front of a fireplace, but Mycroft just shuddered.

“I’ll be moving out. And I may burn that chair–and the bed.”

Greg didn’t know what to say. Mycroft picked up the phone and dialed.

“Anthea? I was a prisoner: any and all messages you got yesterday were false. Begin lock down. Turn off my access to all information sources, and send a team to my house.” He paused. “No… Send a security detail to my house, and the computer and security team, but… don’t let them search the rest. We need to have a briefing. Its appallingly bad, dear girl, and it’s my fault.”

Before he hung up he added, “Send crutches, too, my height.”

Mycroft looked back at Greg, “I’ll need you to come in and testify to the briefing. This… this will never go on an official report, I’m afraid.”

“Should I call anyone?” Greg wished he understood.

“No, but depending on whether I get executed or fired, you may need to be the one to tell Sherlock.”

“What?!” Greg stared at him. “Isn’t he… He isn’t dead, is he? Anderson was right?”

“Anderson is an idiot, but even a stopped clock…” Mycroft sighed. “Neither of them was dead.”

“Neither…” Greg stared at him. “Moriarty? And he was really?”

“Brilliant, a criminal? Yes.”

Greg suddenly stared at the man’s chest. “James… Moriarty… and a crown.”

Mycroft just nodded.

Anthea arrived herself with a team. She took one look at him and got her professional face in place.

“D.I. Lestrade? Call me Anthea. Can you please stay here?”

Mycroft looked at her, he was so very tired. “Crutches?”

“Here, sir.”

“I’ll need to change.” He flinched. “Assuming they left me any suits.”

“They were here? Who are they?”

“Yes, he used my computer and phone to send the emails and texts.”

“They sounded just like you, Sir: very precise.” Anthea said worriedly.

“Moriarty isn’t dead,” he said calmly. He watched the computer tech taking possession of his laptop stare up at him, and Anthea’s eyes widen, and… Mycroft smiled tiredly. _Donald was the man who’d installed the new security, of course._

“And Donald worked for him, even if he hadn’t known he was here yesterday. That’s how Moriarty got past the security,” he nodded at the man. Anthea spun with a gun out. So did Mycroft’s driver.

Donald just sagged. “I’m glad. I’m glad it’s over.” He looked up. “I hope you weren’t hurt, Sir. I got in too deep.”

Mycroft sighed, “Oddly enough, Donald, I completely understand.” He saw the shocked looks on his people. “So did I. Just tell them–there’s no reason to go through an interrogation proper, is there?”

He shook his head.

Mycroft hobbled over and patted him on the shoulder. “Whatever you were worried about, I think I can safely say my story is worse. It’s alright.”

They took him away, Anthea staring at Mycroft as if he was a stranger.

“Are you… going to be alright, Sir?”

“No. Let’s get this over with.” Greg and Anthea helped him up to his bedroom.

The bedroom was a bit of a mess, but they’d stripped the sheets. It still smelled of sweat, and sex. The restraints were still there.

Greg weakly asked, “Do... do I need to call for a rape kit?”

“No. There won’t be anything to find, they just made me watch.”

“They?” Anthea asked hesitantly.

He’d opened his wardrobe and practically fell down in relief: his clothing had been left perfectly as it was.

“Just… Just help me get dressed, please? My best suit, I think. This is going to be difficult enough.”

Anthea tensed when she saw the tattoo on his chest, but she didn’t say anything. By the time they got back downstairs–and crutches were doing horrible things to his suit jacket–the computers were gone, and there were guards stationed outside.

They drove into the office, to his superiors, and the security team… and the destruction of his life.

He thought Jim would laugh: he was going to do it to himself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft talks to his fellow "minor bureaucrats" and hopes to be shot.

“Sherlock…” John watched as Sherlock brooded in his chair. “It isn’t your fault that your brother did that.”

“No, it isn’t.” Sherlock sighed.

“I’m sure it’s all obvious to you, what with how you stir your tea, or the exact pitch of the sighing noise or whether you steeple your fingers together exactly which way… but can you try, you know, talking?  Because I don’t have any idea what you’re thinking.”

“Stockholm Syndrome seems rather inadequate.” He said grudgingly.

John thought about it. “You were held by someone you KNOW has killed and tortured people, and who you’ve always had a weird intellectual… thing… for–“

“I hardly have a ‘thing’ for him.” The protestations lacked enthusiasm.

“He’s the only person who ever was at your level other than your brother.” John shrugged. “and now you have the fact that he could have done ANYTHING to you, and apparently didn’t.  I think being a bit mixed up is to be expected.” John nodded. “Time and tea.”

He went off to get tea. When Moriarty wasn’t aimed at you, he was a lot easier to cope with.  John was horrified by what Mycroft had done, so unlike Sherlock  he actually deserved whatever Moriarty had in mind. If he would just stay away from Sherlock, then maybe everything would get back to  normal.

“John?” Sherlock called

“Sorry, lost in thought.” John brought in tea, and tried NOT to think about how much he’d started wishing that Sherlock DID fantasize about him.

*

Mycroft sat in the conference room, with several other “minor government officials” including the one man he reported to, still. He sighed, slightly. He knew finding a replacement would be difficult for Jack.

“First, I would like D.I. Lestrade to report what he saw, so he can be dismissed. His security clearances are insufficient for the rest of this.”

Greg looked around at the assembled men, and one woman –other than Anthea–sitting in the room.  Their assistants and guards were either outside, or standing.  They were markedly different from each other, most looking very businesslike, but one was dressed like a minor errand boy, in shirtsleeves and slightly worn pants.

Greg looked at Mycroft. Mycroft nodded, he’d said don’t leave anything out… Greg explained about the text, coming in, what he saw.  He saw everyone’s attention sharpen when he mentioned the hidden room–Anthea glancing at Mycroft and then back away to her coffee.  He described the tattoos– only one person showed a reaction, but Greg thought he just didn’t see it on the rest of them– and the bed, and the restraints, and Mycroft’s insistence that he had only been forced to watch. They showed more reaction to the fact that apparently Mycroft’s captor had been using his computers.

“I’ll leave it to Mr. Holmes to tell you about the people behind it, I only heard it from him.”

One of the men politely asked him to wait in the other room.

~

Once he was gone, Mycroft looked up. “I would ask everyone to send out all but the most needed of their assistants, this is about to get worse. Anthea remains of course.”

About half the people filed out.

“Tattoos?” one of his associates, one near to his own level, asked.

“Bottom of my foot, and chest.” Mycroft watched people flinch. “The foot was a penalty for not getting the chest one done on schedule. I was supposed to walk in and have it done, and instead he had to kidnap me.”

“Who?”

“James Moriarty.” There was a rustle and murmur through the room then.

“I thought he was the one who was ACTUALLY dead?” of course they knew Sherlock wasn’t.

“No. I had him retrieved from the roof. I knew he wasn’t.  He had arranged a replacement body, of course.  I put the blame on some other people who needed getting rid of.”

“You retrieved him alive?” his superior–Springfield– frowned. “We would very much have liked to question him.”

“He gave up nothing under interrogation last time, it’s… it’s one of the things that drew my attention. That and his interest in my brother.”

The woman– Mycroft had only seen her, never spoken before– asked, “So you had him? For how long?”

“Nine weeks, almost ten. He was a prisoner in the cell I was found in.” Mycroft kept his voice level, but he didn’t look at Anthea. “I have recordings of some of what I did to him, I filmed a great deal of it and kept the… kept some. Unfortunately he has it as well.”

“How did he escape?” the woman asked

“Why didn’t you tell us?” his supervisor asked.

“I don’t know how he escaped, other than a suspicion that he picked the locks, and I didn’t tell anyone because it was my own personal… problem.”

His superior frowned, “Your sadism has generally been kept well in check, and is useful in official duties.”

Anthea stared at her coffee more, Mycroft looked down.

“I’m a complete amateur, and Moriarty has taken great delight in demonstrating that, right up until he decided I wasn’t even worth destroying and called for Lestrade to find me.”

“Explain?”

“After he escaped, he got to my brother.” He held up a hand,” let me finish.” He rather gratefully accepted the cup of coffee Anthea handed him. “”I was not aware of this fact at first.  He then began sending me… temptations.”

Anthea murmured, “The police…?”

Mycroft put down the file on Anderson. “This was a temptation, put out for me. I resisted.” He put the file on Donovan down, “I failed.”

Anthea frowned, “Sir? She was rescued?”

“After I went there and took photos, touched her.” He said flatly. “Moriarty got recordings of it. He tried to use those later, I pointed out that they could have been computer generated, altered.”

Several people nodded. He tossed down the third file.

“The last case wasn’t a temptation, it was the cover up.” Mycroft sighed, “To make sure we ‘caught’ the perpetrator, and that no one suspected my brother since the first two tormented him, but Greg was a friend.”

“Clever.” Bennison said, he sounded admiring.

“Oh, very.” Mycroft sighed. “In the meantime he had Sherlock playing violin… he put forward a false identity, videos, an up and coming talented violinist…”

“I believe I know the one.” His superior nodded. “Sherlock trying to bait… Oh, of course. We all thought it was Sherlock trying to bait out the heir…”

“He was already Jim– James Moriarty’s prisoner, but I didn’t know.” Mycroft sighed. “He had him recording an audio book of The Iliad, because I’d been having Jim read it to me in my home.”

“You were doing what?”

“I was surprised to find he could read Greek. I had him kneeling by my chair reading to me in the evenings.”

A few of them looked appalled, but most looked like they thought that was a wonderful idea.

“I’m surprised you broke him to it in ten weeks.”

“That’s just it, I didn’t. I hurt him–badly– but I never broke him. He played me.” Mycroft laughed bitterly, “He rather sneered at me that I couldn’t manage to play the cowed prisoner for even a day, when he managed it for so long.”

“It might not have been an act.”  Jeffries, the profiler said. “Obviously he would want you to think it was.”

“Act or not, he had my brother for… ah… about the same amount of time.”

“What happened to him? Your brother?”

“Other than Moriarty’s primary aide, Sebastian, apparently roughing him up slightly and frightening him?– without Jim’s consent apparently– nothing physical.” He looked back down at his coffee, “But he broke him.  Broke him enough that when I wouldn’t go get the tattoo voluntarily, he just called him up and Sherlock went to him.” A lot of people looked surprised at that.

“So he’s very good at this.” Said one of their best blackmailers– Bennison-Mycroft despised the man, but he was very good.

“As I said to him, for someone who says he isn’t a sadist, he’s very good at it.” Mycroft added after a moment. “He implied that Sebastian was.”

“There’s more than one kind of sadist.” Jeffries said thoughtfully. “Sounds like Moriarty is more into the psychology of it.  Did he say anything that stuck with you?”

“Quite a bit.” Mycroft said bitterly, “but I think the thing that sums him up best is his statement that it was always more satisfying when the victim did it to themselves.” He laughed darkly. “Well? Here I am.”

“You didn’t have that room put in for him.” The woman said looking at him.

“No, I had managed to convince myself that it was just in case we had a prisoner who needed to be kept discreetly.”

“Do you think he will continue to come after you? Or your brother?”

“I don’t know. I doubt he would release the videos of my torturing him, too demeaning to his reputation.”

Jeffries looked at him, running a finger over his polo shirt collar. “You hurt his feet?”

“Yes, badly… although I think he may have exaggerated how badly.”

“Explains the tattoo.” He nodded. “You didn’t rape him?”

“No. It… wasn’t my interest.”

“I admit I’m surprised he didn’t rape you, or your brother… he didn’t rape him?”

“I don’t think so. The way Sherlock spoke of Sebastian’s intent to rape him… and Jim stopping him… didn’t read that way. I don’t think Jim did, no. I’m not at all certain if Sherlock may have agreed to sex to ingratiate himself, but…” he frowned, “No. Jim would have said so to me, he would know I would be outraged.”

“What did he do, then, in the bedroom?” _Ah, yes, trust a profiler to be interested in that._

“They tied me down, it… became apparent they intended to rape me, and then Jim appeared to have changed his mind.  I begin to think the intent was merely to frighten me.  In any event he and Sebastian had sex, repeatedly. And made sure I had to watch.” The computer fellow–Serdon– looked terrified, but then the man was a mouse.

The profiler looked at him, and looked at everyone else. “I believe I will get more details if this is a private discussion... we can go over it later.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft said very gratefully.

“I’ll need copies of your work on him; people give away a great deal under torture, even if they don’t intend to.”

He put the sim card down on the table. “I kept meaning to burn it.” he sighed.

Mycroft looked at his superior. “I can have my resignation on your desk in–“

“No.” he shook his head. “You’re demoted, but not fired.”

Mycroft stared at him in shock.

“Mr. Holmes, you will be talking to Mr. Jeffries, who will determine how much work it will take to deal with this.  You are on leave of absence until called for, but no, you will not be fired, nor executed. You’re too valuable.” He stood up. “But I am profoundly disappointed.”

Mycroft would have preferred being shot.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Mycroft is having to say this in front of his PEERS. 2. His father figure is "very disappointed"  
> Mycroft would WAY prefer having been shot- control and appearance and all that is his thing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a recap for the profiler  
> I apologize for missing updates. while my husband's surgery went very well, his new medicine has been playing havoc with his blood sugar.

The office the profiler–Dr. Jeffries–took them to was small, comfortable, and impersonal.

He closed the door and looked at Mycroft.

“I’ll end up knowing a great deal about Moriarty after watching the torture you put him through. I will also know a great deal more about you.”

“I expect so.”

“So why not just TELL me what happened in the bedroom?”

“I didn’t go into details, but I did–“

“Cut it,” he snapped. “You’re massively traumatized, and more so by that than the tattoos. You put immense store in the perception people have of you, of maintaining your discipline and control, and Moriarty has cracked that, but something about this got to you specifically.”

“I don’t think you can analyze me,” Mycroft answered tensely. _Goldfish._

“You are not special, Mr. Holmes.” Mycroft almost lunged across the desk at him. “Put enough pressure on the right stress lines and even a diamond will break.” He looked at him flatly. “Moriarty found your stress lines, and he applied pressure. The fact that you are reacting to me this way is proof.”

Mycroft sagged back in the chair. “Yes, yes he did.”

“He appears to be very good at it, and I need to know what he did, and I will try to figure out why.”

“I don’t KNOW why!”

“You don’t need to, Mr. Holmes; you only need to tell me what you observed. If you can tell me how you felt, it will help–partly because I’m certain it will be relevant to Moriarty’s reactions.”

Mycroft sighed.

“He was expressing disgust, as much as he shows anything, with my inability to withstand pain, or pretend to cooperate. He was very firmly reminding me that I’d made him walk to the showers on his feet after… and I couldn’t stand on a tattoo.

“I was put into the room he’d been in. Sebastian moved me around, and it was obvious he wanted to hurt me, probably rape me and then hurt me in other ways. I was forced to…” Mycroft took a deep breath, “forced to crawl after him to kneel, like I’d done to him. I snapped and tried to strangle him.”

“Understandable.”

“He complained that I couldn’t even pretend to be cowed for a day, and had Sebastian put me back in the room… alone. He’d previously made a great point of how he didn’t want him alone with me. It was rather emphatically stating that he would stop protecting me.”

“Did Sebastian rape you?”

“He didn’t do anything differently, no.”

“But you became more frightened.”

“Much.”

“Then it worked.”

Mycroft blinked several times. “Oh.” _Yes. Yes, it had_. “I was also wondering if it meant he’d let Sebastian hurt Sherlock. He’d said that Sebastian inherited Sherlock if anything happened to him. Sherlock seemed quite concerned about it as well.”

“Then what?”

“I was showered and brought back up, and Jim told me he’d been running things from my computer, mentioned Anthea–“

“You’re very fond of her?”

“Yes.”

“Had he threatened her before?”

“Yes, I believe he was saying Sebastian would get her as well.”

“Vague threats, then, nothing defined?”

“Just ‘one of my crueler people’, nothing defined, no.”

Dr. Jeffries looked a bit admiring. “Oh, he’s GOOD.”

“I believe I said so–why in particular?”

“Leaving it vague lets you create your own nightmares. Then what?”

“I wouldn’t let him hand feed me–or fork feed me–dinner, and he just laughed. After that they carried me up to my own bedroom, put moisturizer on my foot and tied me down to the bed.” Mycroft’s voice became more clinical, more detached.

“Jim treated the chest tattoo, and told me to keep moisturizing them or they would get ugly, scar, perhaps get infected. I told him I was having them removed as soon as I got loose.”

“What did he do? Was he angry?”

“No, he just laughed at me, said I’d have to admit to them, pointed out that removal would hurt.”

“You’re hesitating. What next?”

“He said I wasn’t… wasn’t worth destroying after all; he would just break me.”

“You sound upset, and what’s the difference?”

“It’s… He was saying I wasn’t worth opposing. I wasn’t up to his attention. He’d dropped Sherlock to pay attention to me and I wasn’t worth it. Sebastian was saying that, too.”

“You have a rather great need for admiration. That’s a weakness. I’m sure he recognized it.”

Mycroft shrugged. _Had he? Had he just said that to hurt me? I honestly don’t know how to feel about that._

“Then what?”

“He said he was bored and he and Sebastian were going to have a ‘threesome’.” Doctor Jeffries was looking at him oddly. He continued describing it. Mycroft shuddered. He wasn’t seeing the office anymore: he was back in the bedroom.

“Then he suddenly told Sebastian to stop. He put a hand on my chest; he was looking thoughtful.” Mycroft frowned, and used the distance of his mind palace to consider what he was seeing.

“Sebastian looked frustrated, but was waiting for orders. Jim looked like he was measuring or considering something, he really did. I could almost see him change plans, change his mind. Then he told Sebastian he was changing plans–“

“Did he look cruel? Angry? Sad? Happy?”

“He looked… sad? Perhaps? Like he’d decided not to do something and it left him a bit melancholy? And then… attentive? Interested? I can’t be sure.”

“Go on.”

“He told Sebastian he wanted Sebastian to fuck him, he used that word. To ‘do a good job of it’. Sebastian seemed much happier. He ordered him to make sure I could see everything.”

“How did Sebastian act?”

“Very happy.”

“Did Jim enjoy it? Was he rough with him? Was Sebastian being rough with Jim?”

Mycroft let himself go back and consider it. “Rough? Not at all. It looked like some kind of strange religious rite, honestly. Sebastian seemed to be worshiping him, and Jim was basking in it. It was messy.” Mycroft frowned, looked disgusted. “It got all over the sheets. They weren’t using a condom.”

Doctor Jeffries rubbed his forehead. “Were you interested?”

“Errr…”

“Yes, you were, but you didn’t want to be?”

“About that, yes.”

Jeffries asked him more detailed questions; Mycroft answered as best he could.

 “He had Sebastian do the penetrating?”

“Yes, why?”

“It says a lot. Then what?”

“They lay down and slept for a while, then they put me back in the room.”

Doctor Jeffries sat back. “You’re an admirable recorder, even if you don’t understand what you’re looking at.”

Mycroft blinked back to the present. “What don’t I understand?”

“Sex, apparently.”

Mycroft tried to get indignant, but he really didn’t have the energy. “Well, no, not really. I don’t see the point.”

“I would guess that Moriarty changed his mind because you were a virgin, and he was surprised by that.”

“What?”

“The question is why? Is it the idea that virginity is pure? That it would be a sin in his mind to defile it? Likely, if he’s Catholic–they do make a point about it–he may have picked that up.”

“Err… I had previously insulted his faith and suggested a number of sex acts that I had heard of. He did say–“

“Can you quote it?”

Mycroft thought back, quoted the insults, quoted his response.

“Hmm. If true, that’s useful information. Well, we have a lot of information to go on, Mr. Holmes. That said? I suggest you study more sexuality, your lack of experience–even theoretical–is a detriment. It shapes a great deal of behavior.”

“It’s just chemicals, and it’s messy and idiotic.” Mycroft huffed. _Oh God, I sound like Sherlock_. He tried not to wince.

Doctor Jeffries raised an eyebrow. “It’s what’s going to help me solve the puzzle of Jim Moriarty, and you would understand him better if you admitted it was important. It’s also obviously affecting you and shaping your behavior, just like it does anyone who isn’t completely asexual.” He looked thoughtful, “There are very few people with no sexual interest. Even most Asexuals enjoy the release.”

“When that is called for, I use a condom.” Mycroft frowned, “It’s disgustingly messy otherwise.”

“An opinion obviously not shared by those two.” He nodded. “In any event, my interest is in finding out why your inexperience made a difference to him, and whether we can use that to put pressure on him. I suggest you go see one of the secure therapists, and… Mr. Holmes, you are a human being. Denying your bodily urges and integrity doesn’t help any more than denying your sadistic urges. You have to acknowledge that you have them or they get away from you. I doubt that you, yourself, are asexual, merely inexperienced, and if you continue to deny your interests they WILL blindside you. ”

He nodded and stood up.

Mycroft pulled himself together and went out _. Virginity is just a social construct, and the body is just a vessel, a transport…_

_Isn’t it?_

He went back to his office to help shut things down until he was permitted back to work.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eavesdropping, misperceptions, and unexpected questons

When Mycroft Holmes had come in, and after he had passed the radio frequency scanner that was active on all the entrances to the secure stations, one of Jim Moriarty’s agents inside had sent a precise coded pulse.

He sent it again as Mycroft Holmes left for the day.

In between, the microphone and transmitter that had been carefully slid into the horsehair lining of his most impressive Gieves & Hawkes bespoke suit had transmitted everything, all without triggering the detectors at the entrance and exit to the building.

“Told you he’d wear that one,” Jim smirked.

Sebastian sighed, “You were right, as usual.”

“Not entirely: I really thought they’d be more upset,” Jim admitted. “In any event, I want Doctor Jeffries.”

“Dead or alive?”

“Alive by preference. A pity I can’t get to him before he turns in his first report.”

“Will it be a problem?”

“I don’t like people knowing things about me darling, unless I WANT them to know about me.” Jim shrugged, “I have business to be back to. Set some of our better people on Mycroft–I want to know if he does anything unusual at all–and keep the usual eyes on Sherlock… add more on John Watson: he’s unexpectedly fascinated me.”

“I kind of like him. He has balls,” Sebastian nodded.

“Well, he’s rather your opposite number, isn’t he?”

“Him and that Anthea girl, I guess.”

“See if you can get someone close to her, but be careful.”

“Yes, Sir.”

*

It took two more days before Mycroft’s duties could be handed over to someone else; in the meantime, he moved into a hotel. He couldn’t really sell the house until he got rid of the room, and his supervisor convinced him to simply strip it, lock it, and redecorate. Secure houses are difficult to come by.

Mycroft was having it gutted, especially the bedroom.

*

Greg came to talk to Sherlock and John four days after he’d been called to rescue Mycroft.

“Can we talk?” Greg asked.

Sherlock took in the circles under his eyes, the stress, and nodded. “Tea, John?”

“Certainly… Greg? Hi… What’s wrong?”

“Tea. Stronger, if you have it.”

“My brother?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Since you weren’t surprised by me being alive, it was the logical conclusion. You found out?”

“Found out what?” John asked coming in with tea, biscuits, and a bottle of scotch.

“Your brother… had a room in the basement…” Greg said hesitantly.

“I know.”

John looked at Greg. “Sherlock found out partly because he was left in it… by Moriarty. I assume you know he’s not dead either.”

“Yeah.” Greg took the tea, and the bottle. “He… he went in and confessed to some things. I’m not sure how much, or what. I got kicked out after I gave my report.”

“I’m glad,” Sherlock said tiredly. “It gives Moriarty that much less hold on him.”

“Can you tell me what’s going on? I keep imagining answers and… it’s bad.”

John put a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Let me. Just fill in when you need to.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Mycroft kidnapped Moriarty and didn’t turn him in, after the roof. He kept him in that room and tortured him.” Greg stared at them both; Sherlock nodded. “We’ve seen some of the scars, Greg, and Mycroft admitted it.

“Anyway, Moriarty escaped, and then kidnapped Sherlock.” He held up a hand. “He didn’t torture him, but there were a lot of threats, including against me… and Sherlock had faked his death to protect all of us: we had snipers on us.”

Greg nodded, “Alright.”

“So, then he was putting pressure on Mycroft… and then he ‘returned’ Sherlock–”

Sherlock interrupted, “–into that room. It was… worrisome.”

“And Moriarty ordered Mycroft to get a tattoo.”

“The one on his foot?”

Sherlock and John both said “Foot?”

Sherlock slowly said, “Chest, to match the scar my brother gave Jim. What happened to Mycroft’s foot?”

“He got a triskele tattooed on the bottom of it.” Greg gulped the liquor.

Sherlock looked unhappy. John poured himself a shot.

John’s voice shook. “Didn’t know about that. He was supposed to get a chest tattoo, voluntarily, but he didn’t, and Moriarty picked up Sherlock again. I ended up helping to kidnap Mycroft to get him back.”

“You what?!” Greg said trying to mop the tea out of his lap.

“Mycroft came in, told me Sherlock was in danger, and then told me to stay out of it. I lost it,” John muttered.

Sherlock nodded. “The flat was bugged–we’ve removed them–and Jim told him where to take Mycroft. They were set up for tattooing. I knew about the chest, not the foot… or rather, I knew about the intention for the chest.”

“Yeah, he’s got one. Like a JM with a crown on top.”

“Figures,” muttered John.

“Anyway, he apparently got put in his own cell, and then later… I’m not sure if he was…” Greg looked at the ceiling. “I’m not sure if he was raped, he said they just tied him to the bed and made him watch.”

John just stared at him.

Sherlock looked puzzled. “Sebastian would rape him, certainly, if Jim wanted him to. Made him watch what?”

“Apparently this Sebastian and Moriarty had sex in Mycroft’s bed.”

Sherlock made a face. “I’ll call him and find out.”

They spent the next hour catching up on what had happened. Greg seeming rather baffled by it all.

*

Sherlock called his brother the day after Greg’s visit.

“Greg came by.”

“Oh.” Mycroft was uncharacteristically subdued.

“Your FOOT?”

“I cut his up, he thought it was fair.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“WHY?”

“Because it hurt?” Mycroft sighed. “I’m beginning to have more idea how much.”

Sherlock sighed. “So what happened?”

“He put me down, made me crawl, the same things I did to him, only without most of the torture… I couldn’t even take that.”

“Since when can you stand to be put down, brother?”

“Never.”

“Greg thinks you were raped.”

“I think they meant to; Jim changed his mind. The profiler thinks he may have stopped when he realized…”

“That you’re a virgin?” Sherlock looked thoughtful. “He didn’t seem to care whether I was or not, but then I wasn’t the target that time… Perhaps thinking I was is why he stopped Sebastian?”

Mycroft hesitated. “Aren’t you?”

“Don’t be daft Mycroft, of course I’m not.”

“Um. Yes, well. I’m fine.”

“Good. Goodbye.” Sherlock hung up.

John stared at him after he hung up. “Can I ask you a question?”

Sherlock just looked at him.

“Right. Uh, you’re not a virgin? I would have said you were and Mycroft wasn’t.”

“No, I’m not. Yes, he is. It’s not important or interesting really, why?”

John stammered a lot and went to make dinner. Sherlock frowned. “John?”

“What?” came from the kitchen.

“Sex is not really that interesting. Why? Did you want to for some reason?”

Plates crashed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which one of the few people who doesn't deserve it, has Jim and Sebastian happen to them.

A week after he turned in his report, Doctor Brian Jeffries was called to do a profile job on a suspected serial killer. While he was helping to look over the police reports there was a bombing, and his identification would be found on a body matching the right height and general age. Given how many other people died in the blast, and how bad the fire was after, it was lucky they could identify him at all.

~

He woke up in a warehouse, with one leg and both wrists cuffed to a bed frame. He was still dressed, but he’d been stripped of his weapons, shoes, belt, and pens.

A short while later Jim Moriarty walked in, followed by the man who must be Sebastian. Brian started running over his analysis and his estimates of his survival–or continued pain-free survival, anyway–started to go down.

“Do you like him Sebie? He’s slim and moderately tall, and has that scholarly look,” Moriarty asked, cocking his head.

“He’s cute, yeah.” Sebastian grinned.

Brian forced himself not to react. “Mr. Moriarty… To what do I owe the distinction?”

“Oh, I LIKE him, Sebie: he’s polite.” Moriarty came over and sat on a chair next to the bed. “You’re good, Brian. Your analysis of Mycroft, and me, was excellent. I assume your report on my being tortured was excellent too, but I haven’t gotten a copy yet. I’m here to offer you a job.”

“I assume not accepting it has consequences I wouldn’t like?”

Jim smiled. “Turn me down and you end up actually dead. Soon. Not immediately, but soon. Accept and behave yourself, and you get a nice comfortable life in another country, with a new identity, and you report to me. You’re dead by the way, there was a bomb blast, killed a lot of people, very tragic.”

“You think that will stick?” Brian had the sinking feeling that it would.

~

“Your identity? Yes. Among other things, I have pull with the forensics department: they’ll even get the dental records to match, I’m sure.”

Suddenly he stiffened. “How do you know anything about my analysis if you haven’t seen my reports?”

Sebastian moved over to the other side of the bed and sat down next to him. Doctor Jeffries tried to move away, Sebastian just put a hand on his chest and pushed down.

“He’s pretty quick, too. I always did like them smart.” Sebastian raised an eyebrow at Jim. _Can I have this one?_

“Tell you what Sebie, you have fun for a bit–no permanent damage, though–and we’ll talk later.” Jim got up and walked away.

Brian tried to call after him, but Sebastian clapped a hand over his mouth, tightly. “Nope, I’ve had the last few pulled out from under me; you can tell him you accept his job offer later.”

~

Jim figured he’d let Sebie take some of the fight out of Brian and then go back and see if he was willing to make a deal. He sat in the office, taking care of business here and thinking about his next plans, when he got a text from one of the eyes on Mycroft.

You said report anything unusual. I think going to a bar is unusual.–CW

Hell, yes. What bar?–JM

He told him and sent an address. Jim walked out into the warehouse. “Sebie?” he could hear the sound of flesh impacting, and groans. “I have to go; can you catch up when you’re done?”

“Sir?” The bed stopped moving. Jim could hear Brian gasping for air raggedly.

“I have to go out. I’ve texted you the address, catch up when you’re done.”

“Take guards!”

“Of course, Sebie… Don’t damage him too much, right?”

*

By the time he got back to London, the observers reported that Mycroft had gone in, had a drink, and appeared very nervous–for Mycroft–and left.

Sebastian caught up the next day, he was grinning widely. “Can I keep this one?”

“Maybe,” Jim smiled. “Did he say anything?”

“I didn’t give him much chance to. I can ask him some questions, if you like.”

“Might be best to wait until tomorrow, Sebie. Besides, I have a good lead on one of Mycroft’s fellow ‘minor functionaries’. I may need your sniper skills.”

*

The next night Mycroft went to a club, spent all of ten minutes there and left.

“Whatever are you doing, Mycroft?” Jim asked aloud as he watched through the scope.

Across the city, Sebastian was watching as one of the secret powers of Britain met with his mistress. She left a curtain open with a good view. The bullet killed them both. _Well, he died happy,_ Sebastian thought as he packed down the rifle and left. He wanted to get back to Brian: he had some ideas.

*

The next day Jim finally sat down for a job interview with Brian Jeffries. Sebastian brought him in to the office and put him in a chair. Sebastian stood behind him, and Brian didn’t even try to move.

“I finally got a copy of your report.” Jim said brightly. “It’s quite good, given the limited information you had.”

Brian didn’t look up, just stared at the desk and kept his hands clenched together.

“I agree with your assessment of Mycroft: a rather juvenile outlook, especially in a sadist. He never really did progress further. He is rather arrogant, both the Holmes brothers are–or were–although being surrounded by idiots can’t be helping that.

“I must add something you missed, however: that is, that part of his issues stem from the fact that he never really experienced threat or pain to himself, not really. He had very little first-hand idea of how much pain HURTS, or how much it affects your mind.” Jim waited.

“I do expect you to respond, Doctor. You can speak.”

“I have no idea what you want.” His voice shook.

“Hmm. Let’s start with a question. Why do you think Mycroft would be going to clubs or bars, Doctor? It’s quite unlike him.” Jim described his behavior, the nervous visits to first a bar, then a club.

Brian got intrigued, just a bit, despite himself. “That–that is odd for him.”

“Yes! Yes it is!” Jim nodded.

“Do-Do you have video? I could look.”

Jim brought up the video and let him see it.

After a while, Brian laughed weakly, “He MIGHT be trying to pick up a one night stand or something.”

Jim stared at him. “What?”

“I was suggesting he get more knowledge of sex–“

“I know, I heard you. Excellent advice.”

“How did you hear that?”

“I put a bug in his suit, inactive until activated by one of my people in the building. I heard the whole discussion,” Jim smiled.

Brian stared at him, “That’s…”

“Brilliant, obvious, and you should have caught it. Yes. I love those plans,” Jim said, still smiling. “Why do you think Mycroft might be trying to pick people up in a bar?”

Sebastian snorted, “Lousy job of it, if so.”

Brian flinched.

“Why?’ Jim asked pleasantly.

“He might have decided to try to find someone to experiment with, to uh, lose his virginity, which can be difficult when you’re older.” Brian sighed, “He’d be better off hiring someone.”

Jim looked at him and then shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You know, I believe that. He’s that much of an idiot.”

“Sir, I believe I would like to take you up on your job offer, please,” Brian said very quietly.

“Sebastian?” Jim looked over Brian’s head at the smug looking sniper. “Is this a record? Least visible marks and most cooperation in under three days?”

“I think so, but then again, like I said, he’s smarter than most.”

“I do take it you understand that the penalties for betrayal are severe,” Jim said pleasantly.

“Yes, Sir,” he said hoarsely. “I was… informed.”

“Welcome to the team, Doctor Jeffries. You are not to tell anyone any details about my people, other than myself and those I choose. Understood?”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Naturally, no one can touch you without your permission.” He nodded at Sebastian, who took a step back and to the side.

Brian sagged slightly.

“First order of business, then: names and biographies of everyone who was in the room when my darling Mycroft gave his report.”

“‘Darling Mycroft’? I thought you lost interest in him?”

“He’s not what I thought he was, no, but I find both brothers intriguing nonetheless.” Jim smiled, “Now that I understand them a bit better, I think I can still work with them. It’s better than being bored, in any event.”

Jim pushed a pad and a pen over to him. “Names, addresses, whatever you have.”

He picked up the pen, and stared at it. Sebastian scuffed a foot slightly; Brian flinched and started writing.

*

Mycroft went to the Diogenes instead, that night, to try to regain his nerves. He would find someplace else to go tomorrow.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft never learned to watch his drinks at a bar-he's used to more political poisonings...  
> and how does John get into these messes anyway?

It turned out there was absolutely no better way to kill John’s interest in sex than to hear Sherlock describe it as “Not entirely awful–I could do it with you, if that’s really what you want.”

In fact, John’s ability to jerk off to his FANTASY Sherlock had taken a nosedive.

Sherlock seemed entirely perplexed. Their conversations had been a bit strained the past week.

*

Mycroft thought this bar had a better class of clientele, at least: While none of them were dressed to his standards, of course, they were better than the last place. He ended up talking to a very nicely spoken younger fellow: Henry–professional, well dressed. _Lawyer, recently divorced, manipulative, interested in me._ He felt vaguely uneasy with the manipulation of the man. _Sigh, no… not him_. He just wouldn’t feel comfortable with him. He made the usual polite excuses and finished his drink.

He walked out and was happy to get to the fresh air; it had become appallingly stuffy inside. _That last drink must have been a bit too much._ Mycroft shook his head and braced himself on the wall. It must be the walking boot making him so unbalanced.

“Mike? Are you alright?” Henry asked him.

“Just a bit dizzy.”

“Let me help you get back home.” Henry helped him walk toward a car in the back of the lot.

“I took a cab.”

“I’ll drive you.”

Mycroft looked up and suddenly realized that he’d been drugged–by Henry. He started to struggle. Henry shoved him into the car. His head was spinning. Henry fell onto him and stopped moving. Mycroft blinked because there was a knife sticking out of Henry’s back. Then Henry was shoved into the foot well.

“What?” Mycroft couldn’t think… His eyes kept closing…

“Really, Mycroft? You let yourself get drugged at a bar by this amateur?” The voice was very familiar but he was just so dizzy.

Someone started the car.

*

John and Sherlock got a text at the same time. When both phones chimed simultaneously they looked at each other and looked at the text message.

Get rid of the guards, need help with an idiot.–JM

“What?” John stared at it. “Sherlock, did you get…?”

“We may as well get rid of the guards, otherwise he might shoot them,” Sherlock said in a resigned fashion.

Sherlock slipped out and did something and there was smoke and some minor explosions, enough to draw off the guards. John felt a bit uneasy about just how readily Sherlock did that. _After all, who knew what Jim wanted?_

Shortly afterwards, they got another text:

Come down and collect your idiot.–JM

“Our idiot?” John asked and looked up at Sherlock, who shrugged. They went down to find a car idling in front of the flat and Jim Moriarty–in surprisingly casual clothing–leaning on the car.

“Took you long enough,” Jim snapped. He opened the door: there was a man in the foot well with a knife in his back, and… Mycroft lying face up on the back seat.

John hurried forward. “What happened?”

“The dead idiot drugged the live idiot in a bar,” Jim snorted. “Then he was shoving him in the car and trying to assault him.” Jim dropped a bundled up handkerchief in Sherlock’s hands. “He used that, but I expect it’s harmless enough. Now get him inside, I have to go get rid of this car.”

Sherlock and John hauled Mycroft out of the car and Jim closed the door, got behind the wheel, and drove away. They stood there blinking for a bit until Mycroft groaned.

“Right,” John said, “let’s get him inside.”

Getting a drunk, or drugged, or both, Mycroft up the stairs was a challenge, made more so by the walking cast he was using, probably to keep weight off the tattoo they’d heard about. Eventually, they dropped him into a chair and Sherlock started investigating the drug residue in a small vial. John listened to his heart and got a pot of tea set up.

“Do we need a hospital? Or not?”

“Not,” Sherlock said. “It’s a fairly safe one, but he’ll likely be a wreck in the morning.”

They took his shoes off, and tucked him in with a blanket, and went off to bed.

*

Mycroft woke up with a hangover. He reached for the pills on his bedside table and found the bedside table missing. _Wait, I’m sitting up in a chair? There was no chair like this at my hotel_. Before he opened his eyes, he sniffed– _Sherlock’s flat, it smelled of wool, and violin rosin, gunpowder, cookies, and tea, all overlaid with chemicals from various experiments. There were noises: John, making tea and breakfast._

He opened his eyes and the light stabbed at him.

John came over with tea and water and pills. “Headache pills, water, caffeine. You were drugged at the bar, Sherlock says it’s a common date rape drug, and you’ll be okay,” John said in his concise but reassuring doctor’s voice.

He took the pills. _Had he been raped?_ He self-assessed. _If so they had been extremely gentle… No, probably not; he was just stiff and his foot hurt._

“I don’t think I was raped, although apparently I walked on my foot a bit much.”

Sherlock walked in and put down a tray of porridges and fruit. “According to Jim, the man who drugged you was the man lying dead in the foot well of the car, so–“

“What did you just say?” Mycroft said staring at him.

Sherlock started putting together a breakfast bowl for himself and said. “Moriarty texted us to come downstairs and get you. He showed up in a car, you were laying in the back seat drugged, there was a man in the foot well–dead or dying–with a knife in his back. Jim said you had been drugged by the dead man, or, to be precise, he said ‘The dead idiot drugged the live idiot’ and he had us take you upstairs because he had to get rid of the body–and the car.”

Mycroft just stared at him. _What?_

John sighed, “How much do you remember?”

Mycroft pulled up the memories: blank; pieces; blank; fuzzy, confused images. He looked terrified suddenly before he closed off all expression. “The last thing I clearly remember was being at a rather nicer than usual, but still annoying, bar. I can’t remember–my MIND has been tampered with!

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, “You may recover some of it, you may not. Most of this class of drug effect the formation of memories, your mind likely stopped recording. I’m… sorry. It’s quite unsettling.” Mycroft suddenly realized he spoke from experience. _Oh. Drugs._

They ate breakfast in silence, Mycroft occasionally trying to pull together memories.

Eventually, Mycroft said, “I had been talking to a young lawyer named Henry; I didn’t trust him, I made my excuses, and left… I think, I remember feeling rather dizzy. Then I have a vague memory of someone falling or landing on me.”

“He said your assailant was shoving you in a car and trying to assault you,” Sherlock said calmly. “I assume before Jim stabbed him–the angle of the blade implied it was someone shorter.”

“Why would Jim…?” Mycroft looked entirely puzzled. “Why would he interfere? For that matter, why was he even about? He’s lost interest in me.”

Sherlock snorted, “If he had actually lost interest in you, Mycroft, he would have cut your throat.”

Mycroft blinked up at him, “What?”

John nodded, “You hurt him. You left scars on him. If he didn’t still have some interest or plans for you, he would have gotten rid of you. As it was, he obviously had someone watching you.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair looking pained. “Unfortunately, I find him nearly impossible to predict or deduce. My attempts have generally been in error.”

John looked at the two of them. “Have you considered asking?”

“What?”

“Oddly enough he seems to TALK to Sherlock. I’m clearly beneath his notice–or maybe not anymore, after last time–but he does seem to be willing to talk to you two.” John frowned, “And Sebastian seemed willing to talk to me, God knows why.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful, “You are both military, and he works for Jim… He might feel you are in the same position?”

“I’m not a rapist,” John said tightly.

Sherlock shrugged, “If Sebastian thinks you are worth talking to, we should take advantage of it–carefully. Unfortunately, we don’t have any way to get in touch with him except through Jim.”

“Uh…”

Mycroft snapped his attention over; a moment later, Sherlock turned and stared at John as well.

The weight of both of them deducing at him was almost physical.

“Stop it, alright!? I found a card after the whole… incident. He invited me to meet up sometime for a beer. I just… I didn’t want to deal with him after I found out…” he looked at Sherlock, “After I found out what he did.”

“Meeting him in a public place, with backup, should be safe.”

“No, just no.”

*

“How do I get into these things?” John muttered as he walked into the bar to meet Sebastian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously though, i know too many people who have had drugs slipped into their drinks. never take your eyes off your drink, never leave it unattended, never let someone get it from the bar for you.  
> men are especially vulnerable *because* they are often expecting it less. most women get warned about this stuff, a lot of my male friends never did.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sitting down to commiserate.  
> NO Sebastian isn't a nice guy, but then John doesn't have many people who understand what his life is like.

John had only been there a short time when Sebastian slid into the booth next to him. John suddenly felt short and fat.

“So, why’d you change your mind?”

“You know they seem to think I can be all subtle and fish for information?”

“They? Oh, don’t tell me the both of them are working together for a change?”

“Well, after your boss dumped Mycroft off at our flat–“

Sebastian sat forward. “What?”

John stared at him. “You don’t know?”

“When?”

“Last night.”

Sebastian groaned and sat back. “Bloody GIT! God damn…” He looked up with a haunted look at John, “Yours go running off without you all the time, too?”

John stared at Sebastian and sagged, “Oh, God, yes.”

They sat there through their first beer muttering at each other.

“He was going to take a poison caplet just to prove he was smart! The daft moron!”

“Mine almost set off a poison cloud in a five star hotel because he was bored and found the cleaning closet.”

“That sounds like mine.”

“He went off and stabbed someone because he wanted to time the bleed out! And he didn’t tell me where he went!”

John looked at him wearily, “Mine hasn’t done that yet, but he once beat a corpse with a riding crop to study the bruises.”

Sebastian just muttered, “How did two military men end up with THEM?”

John sighed, “Well, it’s not boring. Infuriating, insanity inducing, and frustrating, but not boring.”

“Well, yeah, that and the sex is brilliant,” Sebastian sighed.

“Wouldn’t know.”

Sebastian choked. “You? You mean you HAVEN’T?”

“No. Didn’t–“

Sebastian interrupted, “How can you keep your hands OFF him? He’s gorgeous!”

John flushed, “I’m… I’m not gay, I just think Sherlock–“

“First of all, there are straight guys and gay girls who would hit that; secondly, you can’t tell me you haven’t had a bloke or two.”

“Back in the army,” John muttered.

“Look, anyway, how can you NOT? You have seen him, haven’t you? You’re not blind and you didn’t get shot anywhere that would knock that out.”

John coughed, “Fine, he never even indicated that he’s ever… or even knew or thought about sex… ever… until after he came back and,” John’s jaw tightened, “after he talked about you.”

“I never did anything but knock him around” Sebastian sighed, “Damn it.” He held up a hand, “Before you go all upset, you’ve seen Jim?”

John sighed and lost some of his edge. “Yes, although apparently there’s more.”

“That bastard carved up the bottom of both of his feet, you know.”

“Mycroft said he cut his feet, I didn’t know any of it.”

Sebastian nodded, “So I’m pissed as fuck, and there’s THAT body, and I’m watching him shower every day–“

John choked into his beer.

“Yeah, exactly. And then Jim comes out of that room with his shirt off, and he’s… upset.” Sebastian sighed, “I lost it, okay? You were willing to put Mycroft in a choke hold and kidnap him, to his enemy, because yours was maybe hurt? What do you think I wanted to do?”

John just sagged. “Doesn’t make it right.”

“Never said anything I did was RIGHT, mate.” Sebastian shrugged.

After a pause Sebastian asked, “So you still haven’t? With him? Why the hell not?”

“When he says ‘Well, sex isn’t all that awful–I suppose I could do it with you if it’s something you want for some reason,’ it tends to put me right off,” John muttered.

Sebastian stared at him. “You…. You’re not kidding?”

John shook his head, “Honestly I haven’t even been able to wank off prop– Oh, God, how many beers have I had?”

“Three.”

“Either not enough or too much.”

Sebastian clinked his glass with John’s. “Ain’t that the story of our lives with them?”

John sat back. “Yeah, yeah it is.”

“So what was it you were going to ask me? That they wanted?”

“Oh, Mycroft got drugged at a bar, and Jim stabbed the guy and dropped Mycroft off at our flat. I think they wanted to know what was going on.”

“The hell was that ponce doing at a bar?”

John blinked. “You know, I have no idea. I just know he was there on his own, then apparently he got drugged in his drink. We wanted to know why Moriarty was there… but I don’t actually know why MYCROFT was there.”

“Daft wankers, the lot of them,” Sebastian muttered. “Wish the boss would let me gut the bastard and get it over with.”

“Why doesn’t he? Let you gut Mycroft.”

“Fuck if I know. Probably some clever complicated plan or another.” Sebastian glared at John. “You can’t tell me yours isn’t the same way. Just do what you’re told, it’s all too complicated for you, I’ll tell you when you need to know.”

John banged his head on the table. Sebastian patted his shoulder. “I knew it.” He sighed. “Jim’s going to get himself killed being all clever like that.”

“Sherlock, too.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“You ever want a casual shag, doc, just give me a call. No one should live with THAT and not be having sex with him, its cruel… like having an Aston Martin in the garage and not driving it.”

John found himself momentarily thinking about it, then said, “I don’t think Sherlock would ever forgive me.”

Sebastian snorted, “God only knows. Mine can be hell on wheels jealous over one thing and shove me off to go screw someone the next.”

John’s phone beeped; he glanced down at the text:

“Are you getting any information? Do you need help?-SH

“Yours?” Sebastian grinned.

“Yeah. I should go, but… Thanks, actually. I don’t think I like you exactly, but it’s nice to have someone to commiserate with.”

Sebastian nodded. “We’re sort of in a unique situation, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, anyway…”

“About that–“ Sebastian pulled him in close and kissed him. John struggled for a moment but Sebastian was really good at it, and John was frustrated… and somehow he ended up kissing him back–just a little.

Sebastian let him go and John was panting at him and trying to get his wits back.

“First of all, like I said, let me know. Secondly? A little jealousy might just do the trick. Good luck with your boss tonight, eh?” And Sebastian slid out of the booth and walked away.

He looked down to see he’d missed another text: John?–SH

Be right out.–JW

He staggered out and got in the cab.

~

Sherlock took one look at him and it was like being hit. _He’d KISSED him? And he was interested: his pupils were dilated more than explained by the lighting, and he had an obvious erection, and his hair was mussed, and his lips were puffy… He KISSED Sebastian?_

“He didn’t force himself on you,” Sherlock said flatly.

“He startled me, but… I don’t think you could say forced.” John was trying to pull himself together.

“Why did you LET him?”

“I was startled, Sherlock! And we’d been talking all evening,” John trailed off a bit, “and he’s a really good kisser, actually.”

Sherlock dragged him into the flat.

“Where’s Mycroft?”

“Waiting at his hotel,” Sherlock said tightly.

“Look, Sherlock, what was it you said? Autonomic impulses and–”

Sherlock spun around and glared at him. “Show me.”

“What?”

“You said he was a ‘good kisser’ and that this was relevant. Show me.”

“I don’t …”

Sherlock stepped forward and kissed him. It wasn’t actually that great, but it was Sherlock.

“Sherlock…” John sighed, “I love YOU, but, God, you have no idea what you’re doing, do you?

Sherlock looked indignant. “Then show me.”

John looked up at him. “Sit with me? The height difference won’t matter as much.”

He stalked over to the sofa and sat down with his arms folded.

“You know looking angry at me doesn’t make it easier.” John sighed. “DO you ACTUALLY want me to kiss you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock huffed at him.

John shook his head and pulled Sherlock in and kissed him. He took his time with it and slowly felt Sherlock relax, and bring his arms up around him.  John pulled back just a little. “That’s more what I wanted,” he said into Sherlock’s lips.

“Is that how he kissed you?” Sherlock was so jealous.

“Not even a little.” John went back to kissing him. They ended up kissing on the couch until John fell asleep in Sherlock’s arms.

~

“That was adorable, Sebie.” Jim said taking his eye off the scope aimed through their windows. “I’m glad you called me.”

Sebastian smiled, “Thought jealousy might be the trick.”

“The Holmes boys are a possessive lot,” Jim agreed.

“And you aren’t?”

“Never said I wasn’t Tiger.” Jim grinned up at him “Show me how you kissed John Watson.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Sherlock has not suddenly stopped being asexual. He is not suddenly a demisexual, or whatever.  
> Many Ace individuals enjoy kissing (or sex for that matter). This version of Sherlock's sexuality is loosely based on two friends of mine.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am updating this early because i will be busy rescuing a library from a dumpster tomorrow.  
> TW for Dub-Con, and very, very unsafe decisions

Mycroft got called back in to work unexpectedly early, after only two weeks of leave.

“We have a very serious problem,” his superior said tightly.

“Obviously, or you wouldn’t have called me.”

“Three of our number have been killed in the last two weeks.”

Mycroft stared at him. “Three? Who the hell could even GET to… Moriarty.”

“We think so. Jeffries was killed in a bombing; Norton shot by a sniper, along with his mistress; and now Melborne is dead–poison, we think.”

“You aren’t certain?”

“We’re certain, we just have no proof.”

“I see.”

“We need you back at work immediately, regardless of the issues. Your house should be done, so we need you back in a secure building and back to work.”

“Is Anthea still willing to work for me?”

“I have no idea. You’ll have to ask her.”

Mycroft went to find her, and asked if she would talk to him in his office. She agreed.

“I expect the last bit has been… difficult.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Finding out your boss has a secret torture room in his basement and thinks it’s fun? Yes, a bit.”

“I won’t lie about it, not now, there’s no point.” He sighed, “YES, it’s a temptation of mine, although less so lately: I find that I don’t like it very much practiced on me.”

“You know people have been trying to get close to me?”

“What?!”

“Suddenly, I have blokes, and some girls, trying to pick me up. I notice. I chatted one of them up and he really had no interest in me: he was after something. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? And can I trust you?”

“You could always trust me.” Mycroft sighed, “You were one of the people Jim threatened, in fact.”

“Really? With what?”

“Being handed off to one of his ‘more vicious people’–by which he meant Sebastian, I presume.”

She didn’t look frightened; she sneered. “I’m not your property to be handed off.”

That got a grin. “I know. I think that’s why I always liked you.” He nodded. “Can we get back to work? Three of the people who work at my level are dead; I’ve been recalled.”

She startled, then nodded, “Right. You’ll be moving out of the hotel then?”

“Yes, tomorrow morning. I have things to arrange, so I’ll see you in the morning at the office?”

“More likely the afternoon, Sir. I have to wrap up what I’ve been doing.”

Mycroft nodded and went out. Once he moved back home and was back at work, any chance to find someone who didn’t know him and get past this problem would be at an end. It would simply HAVE to be tonight.

~

Jim finally lost his patience when he saw Mycroft skulk out to yet another club.

Mycroft was sitting at a table, trying to figure out why this place was listed as a good place to meet someone–it clearly wasn’t; the noise level was deafening and the lights were terrible–when Sebastian slid in to the seat on one side of him and Jim on the other.

“Don’t be stupid, Mycroft.” Jim didn’t care that he couldn’t hear him over the noise: Mycroft could read his lips. “I could shoot you in here and they’d never hear it over this appalling racket.”

Mycroft had to reluctantly agree. He didn’t argue as he got escorted out and shoved into Jim’s car.

Jim closed the window between them and the front. “What the HELL are you playing at?”

“Why is it any of your concern?” Mycroft asked him cautiously.

“I OWN you, Mycroft,” Jim said tensely, “and you’re taking stupid chances–“

“You don’t own me!” Mycroft shouted.

Jim smiled, and pulled a knife. He crawled on top of Mycroft and held a blade to his throat and Mycroft felt paralyzed. _God, he wasn’t cut out for legwork…_

“I OWN you,” Jim hissed at him, blade held to his throat. “I have since you decided to play with me and got my attention. If I decide to toss you in the rubbish I will, but until then you’re MINE.” The blade edged in just a bit more and Mycroft felt blood. “Say it.”

“You… own me.” Mycroft finally gasped.

“Good.” Jim abruptly climbed back to his side of the car and wiped the knife off, looking perfectly normal. “So what are you doing skulking around these clubs? I’m quite put out, you know.”

“Nothing… important,” Mycroft muttered, not wanting to tell Jim anything.

“Trying to lose your virginity in a fucking nightclub? Really? You could at least show some class, Mikey.”

Mycroft winced.

“You would have been better off with Sebastian, for God’s sakes: at least he knows what he’s doing, and he’s not entirely stupid.”

“I rather had the impression someone like that would kill me.”

Jim shrugged, “Eventually,” then he reached over and slapped at the spot on Mycroft’s shirt over the tattoo; Mycroft yelped. “I own you, and I won’t have you pawed at by some drunken idiot for your first time. Besides, you let yourself get drugged–REALLY? That was stupid, even for a Holmes.”

“I don’t actually recall–”

“No, of course not, that’s the point… And is that really what you want for a first time? Someone so INCOMPETENT that they have to drug their partner?”

Mycroft blinked a lot. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“We’re going to one of my places, and I’m taking you to bed, and I’m ruining you for anyone lesser,” Jim said firmly.

Mycroft stared at him. “I thought you’d decided not to do that.”

“No, I decided not to rape you. This isn’t rape.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

“If you’re bound and determined to find someone for your first time, Mycroft, shouldn’t it be someone intelligent enough to be worth talking to, and with a guaranteed recent clean blood test?” Jim snorted, “Be practical. There’s me, Sebastian, your brother, John Watson, a few of your coworkers… and possibly your assistant Anthea, and we both know that most of them are out of the question.”

Mycroft really couldn’t come up with anything to say for the rest of the ride.

*

Anthea had managed to follow Mycroft to a loud, noisy club, of all places; she lost him inside, with the bright flashing lights and the noise. _How could Mycroft even stand to be IN here? He hated people, crowds, and noise._

Anthea wasn’t usually fond of it herself, but she had to admit it was useful when you were just looking to take a break, lose yourself in the beat.

She ended up moving to the rhythm despite herself, the beat slamming into her bones and making her heart beat in time. A tall, muscled man moved into her line of sight. He didn’t try to grab her or dance up against her like most of them did, just smiled an invitation. He was armed, but she didn’t know him.

She gave him a challenging look; he walked over; she shoved her hand into his chest and spun, moving her body against him and away. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her in, lips almost touching, and spun her out. She grinned; he grinned back. They almost fought, and almost fucked, on the dance floor until she was breathless.

They ended up out back: her leaning on a car; him grinning down at her.

“You’re armed,” she said, now that they could hear each other.

“So are you.”

“Were you trying to find me?”

“No, actually, just paying my Boss’s bill and such after he left with his boy.”

“Funny, I was looking for mine.”

“I know. You work for Mycroft.”

The fun left her in a heartbeat. “Who are you?”

“Sebastian, I work for Jim.”

She pulled her gun. “I’m not getting gifted to anyone.”

He put his hands up, not in surrender. “Honestly–had no idea you were here, but it was a fun dance.” He grinned, “Wouldn’t mind taking it further.”

“If you’re Sebastian, I’ve heard about your ideas of fun.”

He shook his head, “No, you’ve heard about my ideas of WORK…. And maybe what I get up to when I’m mad. That’s not all I do for fun. Mikey isn’t my type, anyway.” He looked a bit wistful, “Sherlock, though–damn.”

She had the oddest feeling the gun was neither necessary, nor useful; she put it away.

He quirked an eyebrow. “You’re smart. I always thought that was sexy as fuck.”

“You think smart is sexy?”

“I’m with Jim, what do you think?”

“Maybe you think CRAZY is sexy.”

He grinned, “That, too.”

“Mycroft is with Moriarty? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“As dangerous as him getting drugged the last time he went out?”

“WHAT?!”

“You didn’t know?”

She shook her head. He came over and leaned against the car next to her, not hemming her in.

“He’s trying to lose his virginity by running about to clubs.”

She choked. “You… You’re kidd…” She stared at him–then she started cursing vehemently.

“Last time, some idiot drugged his drink after he brushed him off. It’s lucky Jim interfered–although I wish he hadn’t, since I wasn’t along. He dropped him over at 221B; I talked to Watson about it.”

“You… talked to…?”

“He’s alright,” Sebastian shrugged. “Not like there’s too many folks know what it’s like to chase after our brand of lunatics.”

“Mr. Holmes USUALLY stays sedately in his office,” she nodded.

“Yeah? Lucky you, I guess, if you like boring. Now, why didn’t he ask you to help him out?”

“Because it would be unprofessional, I suppose. He values our working relationship? I wish he had asked me: I could have at least arranged something.” She sighed.

“So I got the idea you might be up for some fun?”

“With YOU?” She looked dubious. “You’re good looking, but–”

He grinned, “I’m bloody dangerous; I can kill people, and have; I can make someone enjoy it when I’m forcing myself on them–and that’s a lot tougher than when they’re willing; and we both hate each other’s bosses.” He leaned a tiny bit closer. “And, right now, MY boss and YOUR boss are fucking each other.”

“I’ll fucking kill you if you step out of line,” she said, and started to smile.

“Good: it’ll feel like home, then.”

She dug her fingernails into the back of his head and kissed him–she bit him, too.

“So how good are you at doing what someone says?”

“I work for Jim,” he answered, suddenly thinking this was a lot more interesting. “I’m pretty well trained.”

“I don’t like meek, and I bite.”

“The best ones do.” He smirked, “I bite a bit myself.”

“My car, I’m not going anywhere I don’t control.”

“I like you.” He laughed.

“I don’t care,” she said back, “but I’m pissed at my boss right now, and you look like fun.” She got out her keys and walked to her car.

“Any limits I should know about?” he said as he got in.

She smirked, “Nothing where it shows, nothing permanent, you wear a condom, and you stay away from my weapons and my electronics. You?”

“About the same.”

“Keep your hands off my radio: driver picks the music.”

“It’s not an Impala–pity.”

She took her eyes off the road for a moment, “YOU watch Supernatural?”

He stared at her. “Religiously.”

“Shit. I might start to like you.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW dubious consent and mildly unreliable POV

Mycroft had recovered his composure by the time they got to a building on the other side of London. He considered trying to take Jim down–then reconsidered when he saw the very unhappy guards.

Jim got out and walked off, with a “Strip him and bring him to my room” to his guards.

_So much for not rape, then._

He tried to put up some kind of resistance, but, in the end, all he could manage was icy dignity. There was, at least, no sign of Sebastian. He was taken, nude, to a bedroom, rather more ostentatious than was tasteful, and Jim sat there and watched as he was put into ankle and wrist restraints attached to bars. The guards went out.

Mycroft sneered at him, “What does it say about someone so incompetent that they need restraints?”

“That I’m not an idiot?” Jim said, raising an eyebrow. He started taking off his suit and hanging it up. “Really, Mycroft, you barely behave yourself at knifepoint–you think I’m going to take off my weapons around you with your hands free?” He took off his shirt. “Honestly? You think I trust you that far?”

Mycroft had to concede the point, but, “Then how is this not rape?”

Jim just looked at him in disgust, “Really? Just how sheltered are you? Just because you’re tied up doesn’t make it rape. CONSENT, or the lack of it, makes it rape.”

“And if I don’t consent? Am I to believe you’ll just let me go?”

Jim just snorted at him. “I said that already.” He stripped off his undershirt and Mycroft startled. There was what appeared to be a sketched out design over part of his back.

“What…?”

“Hmm? Oh, I’m having the scars covered.” He shrugged. “Several of the tattooists I researched for you are very good.” He peeled out of the socks and boxers. The back of one leg showed similar sketchy designs, as if they were penciled in.

“Doesn’t that…”

“Hurt?” Jim looked at him with a sort of dark amusement. “You might not want to remind me of that, Mycroft, given your current predicament.”

Mycroft very quickly decided not to comment.

Jim sprawled on the bed next to him. Mycroft was both frightened and annoyed at being essentially unable to move. He wasn’t attached to the bed, but, with his hands and feet attached to bars holding them apart, he couldn’t do much.

Jim got out some cream–labeled for tattoos–and went over Mycroft’s foot and chest. Then he went over his own leg.

“Make yourself useful, Mycroft: do my back.”–the implied “don’t do anything stupid” was very loud.

“With my hands like this?”

“Stop WHINING, Mycroft! My God, at least Sherlock never WHINED at me. It’s just a spreader bar; it’s not like I nailed your hands to the bed!”

Jim put a glob of lotion in Mycroft’s hand, and he did his best to spread it across Jim’s back.

Jim shoved him back onto the bed. “For Christ’s sake, Mycroft, get some combat training or something.”

“Why? It didn’t help the other three you had killed.”

“Two: I kidnapped one and faked the body,” Jim said casually.

Mycroft was starting to ask, shocked and startled, when Jim–without warning–put his mouth down on Mycroft’s penis. His words were cut off with a gasp–half of shock, half of pleasure–as a tongue swiped down the length of his shaft.

Mycroft quite literally didn’t know what to do, or think, and his body twisted as he couldn’t decide on toward or away.

~

Jim had to fight not to laugh at Mycroft’s reaction to being licked. _Oh, Honey, we haven’t even STARTED yet_. He licked him again, and watched as he started to become erect. Jim took him into his mouth while he was still soft, enjoying the feeling of blood filling him under his tongue–such a delicate part of a man’s anatomy.

Jim bobbed his head and Mycroft gasped–then he almost knocked Jim out with the spreader bar between his wrists. _Damn, that won’t do._

Jim stopped just long enough to clip the bar to the headboard.

“What? What are you–“ Mycroft panted out.

Jim ignored him and went back to work. Mycroft forgot all about any protests when Jim swirled his tongue around as he pulled his head back–the man just screamed… then collapsed moaning, only to shriek again as Jim SWALLOWED around him.

 _Good luck finding anyone who can compare to this_ , Jim thought wickedly.

He spread a bit of lube on his finger and ran it around Mycroft’s hole; as expected, he clenched immediately and tried to jerk away. Jim worked his tongue in fluttering movements over the head of his penis and Mycroft lost all control, jerking and twisting and trying for more friction. Jim took advantage of the distraction to slip a finger inside him. He barely touched the man’s prostate when he came, finally going silent with his mouth open.

_Virgins–no stamina. That’s why they usually aren’t worth it–well, except for the stunned look if you do it right._

Jim took advantage of the complete limpness of Mycroft’s body to slip another finger into him; he began working him open slowly.

“Wha… I…” Mycroft was trying to say something–probably something ridiculous like stop or what have you.

“Mycroft?” Jim said pleasantly, “Shut up.” And he twisted a finger against the man’s prostate. Mycroft moaned and yanked on his wrist restraints. Jim spent several minutes at two fingers, hitting Mycroft’s prostate to shut him up occasionally. Eventually, he started gently licking and sucking again.

“P-please…”

“Please?” Jim smirked up from Mycroft’s crotch, and then licked him again. “Good heavens, so you can be polite.” He started licking and nipping up the center of his stomach. “Please what? Stop? More?”

Mycroft just moaned.

“I’ll take that as ‘more, please’ for now; I’ll have you begging later.” Jim looked at the position and the condition Mycroft was in and nodded. He took his fingers out, slowly.

“Flip over, Mycroft, on your knees.”

His muscles didn’t seem to be working well, which amused Jim no end, but eventually Mycroft got flipped over. Jim started working his fingers again, and more lubrication, watching Mycroft’s back shiver. He sounded like he was crying– _he might be; some people do._ Jim kept working, taking his time, and started biting up his back, finally latching his teeth into the man’s shoulder. Whenever he tried to protest, Jim made a point of hitting JUST the right spot and those protests died off in moans, or screams he kept trying to muffle into the pillows.

Jim added lubrication and leaned forward to speak into Mycroft’s ear, “Mycroft? Relax; I’m going to add a bit, alright? Just relax.” He kept working until he felt Mycroft relax, and then he carefully pulled his fingers out and pushed himself in. He expected the sudden tension and was already stopping when Mycroft clenched and jerked up in shock. Jim held still and reached around to stroke Mycroft’s cock again. He added a twisting motion to the end of every stroke and Mycroft started moaning again, and relaxed despite himself. Jim pushed in gently. Mycroft tensed, and Jim worked on him until he relaxed again. Eventually, Jim was in him to the hilt.

Jim took his hand off of Mycroft’s penis and braced himself on his hips, “Now I’m going to start moving… If you want to clench up, do it when I pull back, not when I push in.”

 _God, virgins needed so much work. Still, if you trained them right they were loyal and eager._ Jim sighed faintly _, Hopefully, Mycroft’s brains would settle back into his head eventually. If I have to deal with one more imprinted, love-struck…_

Jim thrust into Mycroft’s prostate a bit harder than he’d intended, just thinking about THAT fiasco. Mycroft shrieked, throwing his head back and shuddering in a delicious fashion around Jim, finally collapsing on the bed to desperate moaning.

_Right, there was a good side to everything._

Mycroft really didn’t last long after that, then he passed out and drooled on the pillows. Jim sighed, and finished himself off by hand. He went and sat in a shower while he considered. _You didn’t want to have it be all consideration and cuddly, a little bit of fear was called for, but…_

Jim grinned _. I have a tie I don’t need…_

When he came out of the shower Mycroft was awake again, lying there, breathing hard, eyes wide.

“Back with me again?” Jim asked sweetly.

“That… That’s what it’s like?” Mycroft stuttered out.

“No, that’s what it’s like with ME. Comparing me to anyone else? Ridiculous!” He grinned wickedly down at Mycroft, “In addition, you have no stamina yet, and the first time your muscles and nerves are just getting used to things. From now on, it gets BETTER–assuming you do it right, and have a good partner.”

Jim slid the tie around Mycroft’s throat, watching his eyes get wider. “Now, you just have to decide if you trust me, or not…” Jim smiled as he leaned down and kissed him, pulling the tie snug, but not tight. “Oh, no, how silly of me, you don’t get to decide, you just have to hope.”

Jim got out the lubricant and smirked. “Now relax, Mycroft darling, and try to control your breathing, because you’re going to be very short of air.”

Jim didn’t start tightening up on anything until he was well inside of him, but then he started carefully upping the pressure on his throat; just when Mycroft was panicking and flailing, he thrust in fully, making sure he hit the man’s prostate, and he pulled back on the tie just a bit more… Jim released the constriction, and as soon as Mycroft inhaled he jerked his hips forward in a thrust that made Mycroft see stars–then he pulled again on the tie. Mycroft started spasming, and came, and he went limp. Jim released his throat immediately and listened as Mycroft inhaled desperately, his whole body shaking, and still reeling from the orgasm.

He collapsed limply back on the bed. Jim purred in his ear, “You belong to me, Mycroft, until I get tired of you. If you’re very good, I might give you another lesson. Oh, and Mycroft? If you ever let some random, dirty, ordinary person touch you?” Jim kissed his shoulder. “Well, you won’t, will you? I think you need my permission to let anyone else get too close to you, darling, because frankly your judgment is terrible. Am I clear?”

“Yes.” His voice was hoarse, from screaming and from the breathplay.

“Good. I have to go. I’ll unlock you before I do, then you’ll get dressed, and go out, and my men will take you back to your hotel.”

Jim got up and cleaned up–again–and got dressed. Mycroft had passed out again, although he woke up when Jim unlocked the cuffs. He was still trying to make his muscles obey well enough to get up when Jim walked out.

Jim watched on the security cameras until Mycroft was in the car on the way back to his hotel. He texted Sebastian.

“M has been sent back to his hotel, text me when you’re done–JM”

He got a reply within a few minutes:

“Met someone fun, can you spare me until morning?–SM”

“Enjoy yourself.–JM”

“I am. Night boss.–SM”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is Anthea and Sebastian, hence the M/F tag, just so you have a heads up


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well, really, she always was. Anthea and Sebastian.

Sebastian and Anthea tumbled into a hotel room. Sebastian shoved her into the wall, and she lifted herself up and wrapped her legs around him.

“I need to get my pants off,” he said during one of the times his mouth wasn’t busy.

“Yeah, my hose are a lost cause by now.”

They broke apart and started stripping down. She glanced sideways at him, “Don’t go near my stuff.”

He grinned, “The only ‘stuff’ I want, you can’t take off–I hope.”

He was taking off his as well, and he saw her eyes go wide at the number of weapons. “Shit! How did you hide all of that?”

“Magicians never tell, sweetheart.”

“I’m not sweet,” she smirked.

“Let’s make a deal, then.”

“What?” she said suspiciously.

“Both of our phones go on the bedside table. Our bosses are together and one of us will get a text when it’s all over, for good or ill, right?”

“Mine won’t text me unless it’s a problem.”

“Mine will probably come up with a job,” he grinned, “but he did give me the night off.”

They put their phones down on the bedside table, and fell into bed.

Sebastian barely got the condom on in time.

“Blowjobs are a reward for a job well done–get to it.” She made it clear she didn’t want to start off with anything soft.

Sebastian grinned, “I take it you don’t need?” He felt how wet she was. “Nope, you don’t.”

She dragged her nails down his arms, “NOW, damn it.”

He obliged, slamming into her in a way that would have terrified most of the women he’d been to bed with–had, in fact. She arched her back and pulled herself up with her hands raking down his back like a tigress. They were both done in a matter of moments, panting and tangled, blood under her nails and on his back.

“Okay, now we can try that a bit slower,” she said, breathing hard.

“Give me a minute.” Sebastian pulled free and pulled off the condom, collapsing back on the sheets.

“Blood test?” she asked.

“Clean. I’m tested every three months, and I use a condom most of the time anyway,” he panted. “You?”

“Job requires full medical, so about the same. Damned vampires always drawing blood for something.” She sat up. “So I’ll take a chance on oral…”

He barely had time to process that before she had her mouth working. He dug his hands into her hair, but forced himself not to choke her–she was doing a good enough job not to interfere with. She wasn’t an artist–not like Jim–but he was hard again way sooner than he would have thought.

She stopped and looked up, “You want it this way? Or you want to finish up inside me?”

“Wish I could have it both ways, but I’m not a kid anymore.” He grinned. “What do you want?”

“I want you to eat me out and then make me scream while you fuck me,” she said casually, _and DAMNED if that didn’t make him dizzy with lust._

He flipped over and moved down and put his tongue to work. She dug her nails into his scalp. He used his tongue over every part of her and, figuring she liked it a bit rough, started sucking and nipping as well. She almost broke his neck with her legs.

The only thing that let him remember the condom was Jim’s icy statement about what would happen to him if he caught anything.

After that, she called for room service while he showered off, the water running pink down the drain.

He waited for the food while she showered, and came out with only her hair in a towel.

“Shit, and I thought MY nickname was Tiger!” he said looking mournfully at his arms, back, and scalp in the mirror.

She smirked, “Yea? Well, I broke a nail.”

He wrapped a towel around himself and got room service, tipped the guy and closed the door. The guy’s eyes were huge, looking at the scratches.

They ate in silence until his phone beeped.

“That’s the Boss.”

She tensed. “And?”

“M has been sent back to his hotel, text me when you’re done–JM”

He showed it to her. _Technically a violation of security, but it was her boss._ She relaxed just a bit.

He smirked and held the phone so she could see him type: “Met someone fun, can you spare me until morning?–SM”

The response was immediate: “Enjoy yourself.–JM”

“I am. Night boss.-SM” He put the phone down.

“So both of them survived the night, and your boss is now no longer qualified to hunt unicorns. A win all the way around I’d say.” Sebastian snorted, “And way better than that shit deserves.”

“How badly did he hurt…” She sighed, “You understand it’s hard for me to even picture? I know he’s good at interrogations, I’ve witnessed a few, I even saw your boss when he was in officially.”

Sebastian looked at her thoughtfully. “You know I shouldn’t tell you, but… fine. There isn’t a hands width of skin on him from his feet to his neck that isn’t scarred to some extent. The worst are the bottom of his feet, his back, his thighs, and his chest. He can’t take off his suit without showing a scar, basically, although the worst of them can be hidden by long shorts and a t shirt.”

She looked horrified. “Jesus…”

“All that bastard got was a tattoo on his foot, and a tattoo on his chest to match the initial he carved into Jim.” Sebastian sighed, “But Jim has his own plans, and won’t let me do anything to him, unless something happens to Jim.”

“I got told you inherit me? Just so you know, I don’t belong to anyone to inherit.”

He grinned at her. “I’d rather date you than own you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And Sherlock?”

He sighed. “I want to hold him down and make him scream my name while I put bruises all over him, but I kind of figure that’s a common fantasy for anyone who’s SEEN the man.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed, but I’m not going to go after him.” He looked thoughtful, “Unless he starts something. Why?”

“I look after my boss, you know, and Sherlock matters to him.”

“Well, as long as you don’t tell him, then the threat is still there–and honestly? What good is a threat if I have to use it?”

She nodded slowly.

“So, you don’t have to be in until afternoon?”

“I’ll need time to go home and clean up and change, obviously.”

“I’ll need to be back earlier.” He nodded. He handed her his phone, she looked at him with a questioning expression. “If you might want to blow off steam again, leave your number.”

She grinned, and handed him her phone. They exchanged numbers and traded back.

“One of these days, we should sit down at a pub with Watson and compare stories.”

“You think he’d sit down for a pint with YOU?”

“Already did, once.” He grinned ferally, “He’s a pretty good kisser, too.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Watson?!”

“He turned me down flat, said Sherlock would never forgive him, but he looked tempted.” Sebastian laughed.

“I always thought he had a wild side hidden under that jumper.”

“You don’t KNOW?”

“Know what?”

Sebastian grinned, “Oh… Oh, no. Either Watson tells you, or Mycroft does. If you feel up to it, ask your boss HOW he ended up getting taken to get those tattoos.”

She looked suspicious, “Alright. You kissed him? After he turned you down?”

“I kissed him to make Sherlock jealous. Poor sod’s got the worst case of blue balls… living with that body and no sex?”

“Oh. I wonder if it worked?”

Sebastian grinned wickedly, and pulled up his phone. He pulled up the video of John and Sherlock on the couch. “Yeah.”

She pantomimed gagging motions, but she kept smiling.

“Fucking adorable, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“So he owes me. Let me know when you’re free: if I can get off the same time, and so can he, we’ll go have a minions night out.”

She laughed. “Right. Anyway, we both have to get going.”

“Got time for one more go?”

She grinned. “My turn to be on top.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my apologies for my assorted late updates. apparently the combination of surgery (mine and hubbys), weather changes, and over exertion (30+ boxes of books rescued!) have tagged teamed my chronic medical conditions into surrender. I'll be okay i am just battling migraines and severe exhaustion.

Mycroft staggered into the hotel and ended up sitting down in the lobby. He couldn’t get up until the concierge came and helped to get him to his room–they obviously believed him to be drunk.

His suit would be salvageable–luckily, it wasn’t a good one, since he’d dressed down for the club–but he was quite certain his underwear was a lost cause. He staggered through a shower, and tried to put himself together.

He felt rather stunned, as though the world was a bit muted somehow. Jim Moriarty had every reason to skin him alive: the tattoos at least made sense; none of this night made sense.

 _If this was what sex was like, it was no wonder most people turned into chemically crazed idiots._ Mycroft’s mind unhelpfully supplied an image of Jim laughing down at him, “No, that’s what it’s like with ME. Comparing me to anyone else? Ridiculous!”

_He said it gets BETTER with practice? I’m going to have to avoid him, or sex at all, at all costs._

He managed a bit of a nap before checking out of the hotel and going to meet with Anthea.

He checked his texts: Anthea wanted to meet him at his house and go over the new security.

*

Jim looked up as Sebastian reported in–rather later than expected so he must have had fun. Jim’s jaw dropped open: Sebastian looked like he’d lost a fight with a lion. Jim just looked him up and down: his shirt was stained with blood; his pants were a lost cause, and stained in the crotch; _and he had claw marks on his scalp!_ He looked completely disheveled, and was grinning from ear to ear.

“Tiger?” Jim said staring at him.

“Lost my title last night, Sir,” he said cheerfully.

“Apparently…” Jim walked around him. “Did she live? Or do I have to hide a body?”

“I got her phone number for a rematch,” Sebastian said smugly.

Jim walked back around him and sat down. “Anything I need to know about?”

The smile flickered. “Maybe? But… “ he chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know if this was just her being pissed at her ex, or maybe something more?”

Jim held up a hand. “Condoms?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Likelihood she was tested?”

“Pretty high: we both claimed to be tested regularly and clean–obviously I was telling the truth. We still used condoms–except for the oral stuff.”

Jim looked him up and down again. “Alright, Ti– Sebastian. Just tell me if I need to know, or if it gets serious?”

“Yes, Sir,” he nodded. “How did YOUR night go?”

“Boring. Virgins are always boring.” He shrugged. “Nice stunned look, I suppose. Faster refractory time than expected for his age. Might be something with time and effort.”

Sebastian nodded. “Would you want some extra attention today? I’m a bit sore, but–“

“Later. I have an appointment with the tattooist again today.”

Sebastian went to find a change of clothes.

*

Mycroft arrived at his house. It had been freshly painted, and the landscaping changed to allow for more security. Anthea was waiting for him at the door with the new codes. She kept looking at him oddly; he resisted the urge to blush and look away.

They went over the new security with one of the chief security officers–it was impressive–and he got his new home computers to set up. Eventually everyone else left but Anthea.

“Before anything else,” she said firmly, “I want to see this room.”

“It’s been stripped and cleaned and–“

“I want to see it. I also understand you have pictures of what you did–I want to see at LEAST the results.”

“No, no, you don’t,” he said quietly.

“From what I understand, Mr. Holmes, you violated several of the principles you are supposed to be upholding AND endangered everyone’s lives by doing so, including mine. YES, I want to see it.”

Mycroft winced. “Very well.”

The room didn’t look much better for having been neatly packed down. She just walked through it once, sensible heels clicking on the concrete floor–the rug was in storage, of course. She came back up and sat down at the dining room table. “Pictures?”

He opened the files, scrolled through quickly, and pulled out two stills that showed the majority of the damage. He let her look. Her eyes widened and she looked a bit ill. Mycroft looked away.

“This…” She took a deep breath. “This was for FUN? Not even to get information?”

“I never asked him anything, no.”

She sat there quietly, apparently counting to one hundred. “His feet?”

“Oh.” He was scrolling through, he didn’t have many images of that. He finally found one of Jim kneeling that showed the bottom of his feet and pulled that up.

She gasped. “My GOD, how can he walk?”

Mycroft blinked and looked at the image again. He hadn’t looked at it objectively, not really. “Oh… I… I don’t know.” He swallowed. “I made him walk on them, right after, he… he couldn’t, I thought. After that I made him crawl. I hadn’t actually thought he COULD walk. I suppose that’s why I wasn’t expecting he could escape.”

Anthea just stared at him, looking ill. He couldn’t meet her gaze at all.

“I’m shocked you’re still alive,” she said finally.

“The longer I’ve had to think about it, the more I am as well.”

“And he actually took you to bed, and you aren’t hurt?”

 _I don’t believe it either, frankly._ “Ye– What did you say?” _What did she say? How could she know?!_

“I said that, once you had finished getting yourself drugged apparently at a bar, you were still running about unsecured clubs.” She glared at him, “Which is the STUPIDEST thing I have ever heard of–do you know how many people have been killed or compromised because of that? Just how long would it have taken for someone to send you a nice honey trap, or an assassin?”

Mycroft winced, “Yes, well, I–”

“You could have ASKED me to at least find someone secured, even if not me. Failing that, you could have asked one of the security fellows, but you DIDN’T.”

He flinched as if he were being physically struck. “I think I would notice a problem or a honeytrap–“

“You NOTICED the fellow who drugged you, did you?”

“Yes, I just didn’t notice him drugging my–“ He pinched his nose. “How do you know any of this?”

“I COULD say I spoke to your brother, but I won’t lie–I spoke to Sebastian.”

 _I did not hear that._ “You… what?”

She smiled in her most professional and least friendly fashion, “I followed you last night.”

His stared at her. “Are you alright?!” He remembered Sebastian, and the threats against his brother and Anthea.

She arched an eyebrow coolly at him, “Perfectly. Unlike you, I can handle myself at a club.” She snorted, “How did Moriarty get you to leave with him?”

“Sebastian and Jim bracketed me in the club; I was taken out at gunpoint,” he admitted.

“You… right after being told we are on high alert, from MORIARTY murdering people–“

“Oh Christ, I forgot!” he started. “He said one of our people wasn’t dead, but kidnapped.”

She started texting quickly, dropping back into professional mode instantly, “Do you know which one?”

“He didn’t say, but I would assume the profiler, since the body was the most damaged.”

“I assume you need to say you deduced the possibility?”

He looked down, “Yes that might be best.”

“Done.” Her professional demeanor dropped and she was glaring at him again. “Now as I was saying, right after you get called back because three of our people are DEAD, you go out, without security, to a club, and promptly get taken by gunpoint,” she glared at him, “and you DON’T see a problem with this?’

“Yes, yes, of course there is.” He coughed, “How did you end up talking to Sebastian? And you’re certain you’re alright?” A foggy memory of being carried bodily down a wall and shoved into a car boot forced itself to mind.

She snorted, “He’s quite manageable.”

Mycroft stared at her. “Not the phrase I would use.”

“He informed me that he had NOT been looking for me, or stalking me, he had just been paying off the bill–I assume after you were taken out–and happened to see me. He admitted that Moriarty had you, and was insistent that you were,” she looked extremely disapproving, “otherwise occupied, and not in any immediate danger.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s accurate.” He tried to keep his voice level.

“You did all this to him? And all he did was tattoo you and…” She frowned, “You’re far less upset now than you were after–” she waved at the bedroom. “Do I take it you were NOT forced or injured?”

Mycroft coughed. “I… um… no.” _Terrified a bit, which only seemed too enhance things–damned messy, that._

She sighed, “You had a good time?”

“Rather,” he said, certain that he was flushing extremely.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “If you had done half that to me, do you understand that you would currently be trying to FIND what was left of your balls?”

The language caused him a bit of shock, but then he nodded.

“Well, I believe I can understand why Sebastian was threatening Sherlock–no matter how displaced the anger–and why he would be rather a danger to you. I have NO idea why Moriarty hasn’t done something horrible to you, but I can be thankful for small favors, I suppose.”

She got up and started making tea.

He didn’t get back to his questions until she came back and put a cup down for him and sat down with her own.

“You seem to have gotten a lot of information from Sebastian.” _As opposed to being shoved in a boot or held at knifepoint._

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Do you think he’s a threat to you? Can you take him out if you had to?”

“He’s only a threat to me, or Sherlock, if he is ordered to be,” she said bluntly. “He is understandably still angry at YOU, but, no, I don’t believe he is a threat to Sherlock or me unless ordered.”

She considered, “If I surprised him, I could take him down, otherwise no. He’s very strong, and quite…” Her lip curled up in a smile. “Quite competent.”

Mycroft sighed, “What am I missing?”

She looked at him politely over her tea, “Well, I was utterly furious with you, and I did have the opportunity to both gather intelligence AND try to ensure your well-being, so I went to a hotel with him. If he wasn’t so angry with you I might suggest you give him a try: he’s very good.”

Mycroft put his tea down with a clatter. _She couldn’t possibly mean…_

“Anthea?!”

“You were in bed with his boss, I saw the text that you were sent home to the hotel safely, and I don’t think you have any room to complain.”

She looked at him coolly. “You will have to report your security violations, as well as your contact with him to your superior in the morning. You are rather thoroughly compromised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any errors or inconsistencies are entirely my fault. i blame exhaustion. anyway, two chapters of chat and then everything blows up spectacularly... oh, did i say that out loud?


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i feel sorry for Jack Springfield, really. they've lost at LEAST 3 people, and his best (Mycroft) is acting like a loon.

Anthea escorted him into the meeting with his supervisor. When Springfield tried to ask her to leave, Mycroft stopped him.

“She’s relevant,” he said tersely.

Jack nodded and had Mycroft sit down. Mycroft would have preferred to stand, but he still couldn’t manage on the one foot for long.

“The deduction that Doctor Jeffries was kidnapped, not killed, is not entirely a deduction,” Mycroft said before his superior could congratulate him.

“It… isn’t? I was going to commend you on the idea.”

“Jim Moriarty told me that he had killed TWO of our people, and kidnapped one. My deduction was only as to which one, and it assumes he told me the truth.”

He stared at Mycroft. “When did you see him?”

“Last night. I was,” he paused, “abducted is technically correct.” He admitted, “However, I didn’t put up much of a struggle.”

“He released you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give him any information?”

“He didn’t ask for any business information. I believe his motivation was entirely personal.” He winced.

“Do you need a doctor?”

“No.”

“And your assistant’s part in this?”

“Among other things, insisting I tell you.”

He looked up at Anthea, standing politely to one side. “You saw him being taken?” he asked with some hesitation.

“No, I would have called for backup.” She raised an eyebrow, “I followed him unofficially. He went to a highly unsecure, but public, location, and I lost sight of him. Since the club was playing good music, I stayed to dance. I encountered Moriarty’s assistant Sebastian at that time.”

“Is he still alive?”

She looked amused. “Quite. We had a pleasant time on the dance floor, a tense discussion in the car park, and came to a… truce, I suppose is the best word for it. He was quite forthcoming with information, and he indicated that Mr. Holmes was unlikely to be harmed. I took him in my car to a hotel where we spent the night.” She ignored the man’s reaction. “Which meant I was allowed to see the text message from Moriarty stating that Mr. Holmes had been sent back to his hotel.”

“You… I had been under the impression that this fellow was a threat?”

“I do not think he is a threat to me, or to Sherlock, unless ordered to be one. He is VERY likely to be a threat to Mr. Holmes, as he is still furious about the treatment of Mr. Moriarty. Given that I have now seen images of the injuries? I can’t blame him.”

“You got information from him?”

“He volunteered some.”

“You… I don’t know whether to commend you or report you for being compromised,” he admitted.

Mycroft sighed, “She’s fine. I’m compromised.”

“Admittedly, my anger at Mr. Holmes’ behavior may have clouded my judgement,” she allowed.

“Mycroft? You say he didn’t ask you anything, but he did offer that bit of information?” Jack sounded like he might start whining– Mycroft had a momentary image of him chained to the desk, gnawing  off his leg.

“I said something about him killing three of our people and he corrected me, actually.”

“What were you doing the rest of the time? This doesn’t sound compromised…”

Mycroft looked levelly at a spot on the wall near his clock. “I had been trying to… deal with… my inexperience in sexuality, which Doctor Jeffries had mentioned. Apparently I was drugged a few days ago and Jim rescued me–you would have to ask Sherlock or Doctor Watson, since I have no recollection after leaving the bar.”

“You were drugged? At a bar?” he asked incredulously. Mycroft winced and nodded. “And you didn’t report this?”

“I was rather embarrassed about my reason for being there, and I have no memory of being drugged or rescued. I am entirely relying on my brother and his associate’s statements that Jim Moriarty brought me to their flat, and that I had been drugged with what I am told is a common drug.”

 Jack looked alarmed, but nodded at Mycroft to continue.

“Last night was the first time I went back to a club, and I did so in the belief that prior to returning to work would be my last chance to engage in such activities; this time, I was forced to leave with Jim.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “He rather insisted I belonged to him, and spent the night,” he winced despite his best efforts, “educating me on my lack of understanding.”

His superior looked pained and glanced at Anthea, “Translation?”

“He lost his virginity to Mr. Moriarty,” she said calmly. “Sebastian did point out that our respective bosses were in bed together, and suggested we do likewise.” She smirked, “Angry sex does have its benefits.”

Mycroft was seriously wondering if it wouldn’t be easier to disembowel himself than continue with this.

“You… with…” His superior got out a small bottle of pills and shook some out; he swallowed them and sipped at some water. “Yes, well. Compromised is a strong word, but… You didn’t go out to MEET him, did you?”

“No! Certainly not!” he sputtered. “As Anthea has pointed out, I was taking risks, and it was foolish behavior, but I had no idea he would be there or that he would insist on my leaving with him.”

Anthea drily stated, “But you SHOULD have. I’m not saying you DID, Sir, but you should have. Given that he apparently was on hand to rescue you from someone slipping a roofie in your drink, you SHOULD have realized he might be following or watching you.”

“Yes, yes, I should,” he sighed. “I’m afraid I rather wasn’t thinking.”

“You actually had never… had sex?” Jack asked hesitantly.

“No,” he said as drily and blandly as he could manage. “Doctor Jeffries should have had something in his report, I suspect, possibly phrased as Catholic beliefs about virginity? He was thinking that it might have been my lack of experience that dissuaded him from raping me last time.”

“But not this time?”

“He was emphatic that he wasn’t going to rape me, and, while I don’t think I completely agree, I suppose he didn’t think so.” Mycroft was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded. “I really don’t believe I can continue.”

“I want you to see a counselor, Mycroft.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I also want you to talk to our… alternative interrogation experts.”

“I am one of your interrogation experts,” Mycroft reminded him.

“The ones who work with sex and soft interrogation. I want you brought up to speed on those skills: you’ve never had to know them. If he has any further contact with you, I want you to be able to get useful intel from it without him volunteering it and defend yourself a bit.”

He glanced up, “You as well, Anthea.”

“I was told I had no aptitude for it,” she said calmly.

“Well, better to try. IF you have any further contact with the man, Mycroft, I want it reported at ONCE. Go get a few of the alerts and tracking devices added to your normal carry. You both need to be able to summon help immediately. If Moriarty makes contact again, we will be able to capture him.”

“Of course, sir,” Mycroft said, although privately he thought the idea unlikely in the extreme _. Besides, I am NEVER putting myself in a position where he can get to me ever again._

*

After listening to the bugged discussion, Jim rounded on him. “Sebastian? Your date last night was ANTHEA?!”

He fidgeted, “I didn’t expect her to TELL him.”

“You didn’t tell ME?!”

 _Yup, I’m in trouble._ “I didn’t know if I would see her again.” He winced. “I was trying to talk her into bed, and she was… unexpected.”

Jim looked over the scrapes and scratches, “Well SHE voluntarily told him about her date. I think I’m annoyed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And they’ll have more trackers and such now, which means I am VERY annoyed.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

“I– I had suggested we get together a minions night out? Watson, me, Anthea. She probably wouldn’t think anything was up if I followed up on it, if that’s helpful.” He sighed, “And we had the potential for a future date, she… didn’t sound like she would mind, even on the recording.”

“Hmm.” Jim sighed, and then he suddenly cackled. “Soft interrogation… They’re going to try to TEACH Mycroft to use pillow talk to get information?”

“I take it that’s hopeless, Sir?”

Jim just nodded, laughing. Eventually, he smiled happily up at Sebastian, “You are in SO much trouble.”

“Yes, Sir.” He kept his head down, but, if Jim was still talking to him about it, he’d probably get off lightly.

“I want the next one of the ‘minor government officials’ alive, Sebastian, and it’s your job… AND I expect you to outdo yourself in breaking them.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Hmm... So, Mycroft will have a panic button, will he? So will Anthea… Get my technical people on the job; I want to be able to block those, if needed. And maybe we could use it to lure some people in. Get to work.”

Sebastian went out, wondering why Jim was in such a good mood, but grateful. _Damn that woman, who knew she was going to follow the rules after THAT night?_

_*_

Jim contacted his agent inside special services and told him not to activate Mycroft’s transmitter again until further notice. It meant potentially missing things, but he couldn’t risk being found out just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are oxugen. i do apologize over my llack of updates on soe stories, but its been a VERY rough month


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minions Night Out-interrupted

Moriarty made his preparations–and waited. Unfortunately, security on minor government bureaucrats had tightened up immensely.

*

John and Sherlock continued to argue about the fact that Sherlock simply wasn’t that interested in anything other than kissing or hugging, but didn’t seem to mind doing other things as a way of making John happy–since, for some reason, he was interested in that; he said so, frequently, usually with words like “I can put up with it” and “I’ve done worse things.”

John found this to be a distinct turn-off.

It didn’t help when Sherlock suggested he find someone who was interested in that.

“Like who?”

“Does it matter? I mean, as long as you take reasonable precautions…”

“You got jealous that Sebastian kissed me, but you want me to screw around?”

“Well, not HIM, of course!”

“I’m interested in YOU, not just random people!”

~

Jim found their conversations exceedingly tedious, and was on the verge of kidnapping one or both of them again just to make them shut up. They had, after all, only found one of the bugs in the flat.

*

Anthea terrorized the senior man who was supposed to instruct her in soft interrogation techniques, to the point that he refused to return for the second session. (She ended up taking his junior associate home and demonstrating some techniques of her own.)

Mycroft deeply envied her escape.

*

Jim had been listening to the bugs in Sherlock’s flat and getting increasingly agitated. This worried Sebastian, since he was currently ‘making up his transgressions’ to Jim and therefore not in any position to escape.

The knife currently carving idle patterns into Jim’s desk was by no means sterile anymore, and Sebastian eyed it warily as Jim got more upset. Of course, he couldn’t do much MORE than eye it warily, bound and gagged as he was. _The boss may not LIKE hands-on work, but he could lace your arms into positions that Houdini couldn’t escape from_. Abruptly, Jim hurled the knife past Sebastian into the floor and shrieked, “Sebastian! I can’t STAND it anymore! Either kidnap John and get him laid, or go have your minions’ night OUT! But, in any case, make them shut UP!”

Sebastian carefully used the knife to cut himself loose, fought very hard to hide his grin, and made some phone calls. _Forgiven! Or, at least, he was trusted to go deal with them off leash–close enough._

*

John didn’t believe he was actually going to meet with Sebastian again, but he was very glad it was someplace local, and difficult to be kidnapped from. He definitely wasn’t going to let the man kiss him again.

He arrived and found out Sebastian had reserved the back room.

“Um… Hi… While that worked, sort of, I don’t want–“

Sebastian shrugged over a plate full of food. “We’re still waiting on the third. Want a beer?”

John’s eyes widened, “You didn’t say Jim would–“

“Oh, GOD, no, not Jim–her,” he nodded at the door.

John turned and almost fell over. “Anthea?”

“You know any other people who work for a Holmes, or close as?” She laughed, “I think it’s just us three.” She turned to look at Sebastian, “I admit, I didn’t actually expect you to call me.”

“You bugged?” Sebastian asked calmly.

“What?” John said, startled.

“No,” she shrugged. “I have a tracker on, though: if I go too far from where I said I would be, it will scream.” She looked thoughtful, “And I wouldn’t bet against my boss watching on CCTV, even though he shouldn’t.”

Sebastian nodded, “Me, too,” and waved at the bottles on the other table. “Help yourself.”

“You two… know each other?” John asked hesitantly.

“We met recently,” Sebastian said thoughtfully. “It was interesting.”

“I’m more confused that YOU two know each other,” Anthea said looking at John. “I’m also told I should ask you about how my boss got to the tattoo parlor?” John paled. “I decided not to ask Mycroft.”

“Oh, God.” John put his head in his hands.

“It’s THAT good a story?” She looked at Sebastian, who just grinned wickedly.

“Are you going to shoot me if I tell you?”

“Only if Mycroft ordered me to.”

“Wonderful. Kindly remind him I helped watch out for him–never mind.”

“After he was drugged? I heard about that.”

“Oh? I wouldn’t have thought…” John looked back and forth between them. Then he sighed, “I need a scorecard.” He went and got a beer.

“How’s Sherlock?” Sebastian asked politely.

John groaned.

“That good, eh?”

“I’m going to die of frustration.” John sighed.

“Offer’s still open.” Sebastian shrugged.

John looked a bit panicked toward Anthea, and then sagged faintly. “Right. Lovely. Sadly, no. I suspect you and your boss are the only two people Sherlock would give a damn if I did anything with.”

Anthea whistled. “That bad?”

“No interest at all in anything past kissing, ‘but I suppose I can if it will relieve the tension, are you certain you can’t just take care of that yourself’?” John did a passable mimic of Sherlock’s intonations, if not his voice. “At which point I lose all interest at all.”

“Christ! I’m sorry, if I’d known…” Sebastian stared at him with wide eyes.

Anthea shook her head, “Great, no interest at all, eh? That’s tough.” She looked speculatively at John. “I’d offer, but I think I’d break you.”

John flushed and looked a bit indignant. “I highly doubt that.”

Sebastian shrugged, “I needed first aid, after.” He nodded at her. “I brought a med kit this time, just in case.”

“WHAT?!”

“I bite,” Anthea said calmly, “and scratch.”

“He assaulted you?” John looked at her with those beautiful concerned eyes, and she cracked up.

“NO! God, no, John. I wouldn’t be sitting here having a beer if he had!”

“I’m lost. Really.”

Sebastian shrugged. “Short form? You know Mycroft was trying to lose his virginity at the bar? When he got drugged?”

“Well, no, I hadn’t… although it makes sense. I couldn’t figure out why he was there and I wasn’t in on their conversation later.”

Anthea sighed, “He tried again. I followed him and lost him, and ran into Sebastian at the club.”

Sebastian nodded, “So Jim was off fucking Mycroft–”

“I did not hear that,” John said firmly.

Anthea sighed again, “He was.”

John put his head down in his arms on the table. “When did my life get this WEIRD?”

Sebastian shrugged, “I’d say when you moved in with him, but anyway… So, since our bosses were having a go, and we were pissed at them, we headed off to the hotel and got better acquainted.”

“Hence the med kit and so on?” he said, forcing himself to sit back up, and eating one of the sandwiches. They both nodded.

John looked politely at Anthea, “Thank you for the offer, but you are associated in my mind with being kidnapped into black cars and Mycroft Holmes–who is even more annoying than Sherlock, difficult as it is to believe.”

She nodded understandingly. “So, can you explain how you’re involved with Mycroft’s tattoo?”

John sighed and told her the whole story, with Sebastian chiming in when his part came up. John expected her to be furious; instead, she just looked admiring at him and laughed.

“Don’t ever do anything like that again, or I’ll have to do something, but, honestly, it was inevitable given how he acts sometimes. What did he expect, pulling that on you in your own home?” She shook her head, “He’s so daft sometimes.”

“I have no idea. Now that Sherlock is safe, I feel guilty about it.”

“Don’t. Maybe if you’d throttled him a bit harder, he would have been more cautious later.”

Sebastian looked at his watch, “Sadly, I have to get going.”

John blinked, “Shit. This did take a bit longer than I planned. I better get back.”

Anthea shrugged, “I cleared my afternoon, I’ll probably go shopping.”

They got up and walked out of the back. Sebastian started to retreat only to feel a gun at the back of his head. He held very still. _Fuck._

John stared at the group of men with guns and held up his hands. _Shit._

Anthea stared at them. “Teddy? Frank? What the HELL are you doing?” _I’m going to kill them_.

“Didn’t you call them?” Sebastian growled.

“No, I bloody well didn’t!”

“Anthea, put your hands up,” Teddy said sounding pained.

She did. “You are out of your bloody minds!”

One of the men drily stated, “And you are all under arrest for suspicion of terrorism, and possible treason.”

Sebastian smiled politely. “If Miss Anthea didn’t call you, then I’d rather like to know who did.”

“Move!” They were marched out of the restaurant, with everyone staring at them, and frisked. Anthea activated her emergency beacon before they took it away, not that it was likely to do much good given who was arresting them. John just sighed–Sherlock was going to do something ridiculous, he had no doubt. The men seemed very unhappy with the number of weapons they pulled off Sebastian.

“I still don’t know how you carry all that without it showing,” Anthea said calmly, but she was seething.

“Practice, mostly,” Sebastian said placidly.

“I could have taken a desk job, really,” John mused idly. “I’d be posted in India by now.”

“You’d be bored silly,” Sebastian said.

They got cuffed and shoved into the back of a van. Two very grim looking people were in the back with them.

“Charles,” Anthea growled at one of them. “Will you tell me who authorized this?”

“Bennison,” he mumbled. The other man told him to shut up.

“I’ll have his HIDE!” Anthea swore.

“So, honestly? Not you?” Sebastian blinked at her. “And not Mycroft?”

“I know I didn’t, and Mr. Holmes would never pull this shit on me, because I’m the only one who knows how his schedule is managed!”

“Huh. Well, then, I suggest both of you hang on to something.”

Far too many years of practice in military vehicles meant John instantly grabbed hold as best he could with his hands cuffed and braced his feet–then he asked, “Why?”

Anthea was still looking up, puzzled, when the van spun and tilted sideways. John kept himself in the seat; Anthea was thrown violently as were the two guards. The van hit something and stopped with a jerk.

Sebastian pulled his hands around to the front of himself, somehow only cuffed by one wrist, and grabbed the pistol from the closest guard.

John threw himself onto one of them–Charles, he thought–“It’s not their fault! Don’t!”

Sebastian looked annoyed and hit the one nearest him with the pistol. Charles pushed John off him and held his gun into John’s stomach. “Drop it or I’ll shoot him!”

Sebastian laughed, “So?”

John groaned, “We don’t work together.”

Sebastian shrugged, “So shoot him. But he’s the doctor, and your Anthea is injured.” Sebastian kept the gun aimed at Charles. Charles slowly moved his hand away and clicked the safety on. Sebastian just looked at him until he tossed the gun aside.

John snapped, “Unlock the cuffs!” Charles did.

John moved over to Anthea and started checking. “Anthea? Can you tell me the date?”

“Fuck,” she said quietly.

“Well, yes, but can you tell me the date? And don’t try to move, you may have a neck injury…”

The door to the back of the van opened.

“Sebastian, darling, you’re late,” Jim Moriarty said pleasantly, as an ambulance crew–with guns, which wasn’t normal, no–was at the door with a stretcher.

“Anthea may have a neck and head injury,” John said quickly, staring worriedly at Moriarty–he never was sure what the man would do.

Sebastian nodded, “I don’t think she called them, Boss. This guy here said Bennison did.”

“Did you now? You get to live for a bit,” Jim said smiling at Charles. One of the medical people dragged him out.

They loaded Anthea into the ambulance and John with her. Sebastian and Jim vanished somewhere in the chaos, and the ambulance closed and they drove away.

John was quite grateful when the medic explained he had to be sedated: it meant he could stop thinking about it for at least a little bit. He idly noted as he drifted off that the stretchers were much more comfortable than the usual ambulance….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so everyone knows, most of this story arc was written weeks ago, and only needed proofing. which is good because over the llast couple months hubby and i both had surgery, seasonal depression (on top of regular depression) kicked my tuchus, and i helped rescue a VERY HEAVY library. in other words my brain shut down.  
> i am trying to get back on schedule, thank you for your patience.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the pieces falling together...

Mycroft was enduring yet another lecture about ordinary people and their reactions– _as if any of that had anything to do with Jim_ –when his phone started playing a soft tune. His head snapped down and he was halfway back to his office before the stunned people had reacted.

_Anthea had triggered the panic button._

Mycroft couldn’t imagine what would ever cause her to trigger the panic button if being alone in a room with Sebastian was “manageable”. He started calling up camera records, traces, and police reports. She had been at a pub quite near his brother’s flat, was there for a while, and then the panic… CCTV cameras in the area were blanked out just before that.

Mycroft tensed, and looked back before the blackout. He recognized a few people going into the pub. _Those are our men_. There were no cameras on the scene, but police reported a vehicle accident roughly between there and the closest holding facility, multiple injuries, and several fatalities.

He walked into his superior’s office without an appointment or warning.

“I have one question, Jack. Did you authorize the attack on Anthea or not?”

His superior had been stunned by Mycroft’s arrival–he only acted like this about his brother–then he realized what he’d just heard. “Anthea? Attack? No, of course not! What attack?!”

“She was near my brother’s flat.” Mycroft’s eyes were ice. “Several of our retrieval experts went into the building and then the cameras went out. She hit her panic button a bit later. There are no recordings, but I just got a police report of an accident, with multiple injuries and ambulance response–some dead–including a van, and what sounds like some of our cars.”

Mycroft leaned forward with his hands on Springfield’s desk, “None of her trackers show anything, except one back at the restaurant she was in–it’s still there. Where is she?”

While he was glad to see signs of the cold, ruthless Mycroft returning, he wasn’t glad it was aimed at him. “I didn’t know anything about it until you came in, I swear, Mycroft. As far as I know, there’s no reason for any of our people to do that. Let me see what you found.”

They went over the few records: camera cutoff had been from headquarters, and those were definitely their men; his superior grew angrier by the minute.

“I will have someone’s head for this,” he muttered.

“Not if I get to them first.”

*

John woke up. He had a moment of disorientation before he remembered: _arrested, accident, rescue, ambulance, drugged–politely for a change._ He was in medical scrubs, lying on a cot in a room… Anthea was on the other bed, with an IV.

He got up slowly. There was a pitcher of water, a glass, and an apple on a small table near him, and he wasn’t restrained. He had a glass of water and padded over to Anthea. She was in a cervical collar, and handcuffed to the bed–one ankle too. John didn’t know whether to be insulted that he wasn’t restrained or flattered–he’d bet on insulted.

He had no way of knowing what drugs they’d put in the line, but the IV itself was normal enough. It was on a slow drip, and he didn’t dare adjust it since he wasn’t certain what was in it.

John pulled over a chair and waited.

*

Sherlock had finally looked up from his experiments to realize John should have been back by now. _No, he should have been back a long time ago_. He went over to his phone and checked–there was a text:

“Johnny boy just attracts trouble, doesn’t he? Don’t fret, I rescued him.-JM”

Sherlock stared at it. His first reaction was to throw the phone against the wall and go find him, but he remembered that Jim had, in fact, rescued Mycroft from being drugged…

“Is he alright? What happened?–SH”

He paced until he got a reply. “He’s fine. Some of Mycroft’s friends are very stupid. You can tell him it was Bennison.–JM”

He called Mycroft immediately.

“Not now, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was tense, angry, and he hadn’t even remarked on the fact that Sherlock phoned instead of texting.

“Someone kidnapped John. Jim said it was a friend of yours named Bennison.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply. “Where was John?”

“I don’t know, he said something about lunch.”

“I think the same person kidnapped Anthea… and Sebastian was in the area,” Mycroft said in clipped tones. “Is there any reason he would be–“

Sherlock deleted his first response and then pointed out, “He has met with Sebastian previously–once–over beer, as you recall, and we did encourage John to contact him again for information.”

“He didn’t sleep with him, did he?”

Sherlock stared at the phone. “No, is it relevant?”

“Probably not.” Mycroft took a deep breath, “Bennison?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Can you ask if he also has Anthea?”

He sent a text: “Anthea?”

The reply came moments later: “Concussion, whiplash, minor cuts and bruises: she should be fine.–JM”

“Yes, he does,” Sherlock said into the phone. “He said she has a concussion and whiplash but should be alright.”

“Thank you.”

“If one of your people is behind this, Mycroft…”

“Agreed.”

~

Mycroft looked up at his superior with the barely leashed venom that had been conspicuously absent for some time. The phone had been on speaker–he knew the facts.

“Get Bennison in here,” Mycroft hissed.

Jack nodded. By the time Bennison arrived they both had their professional faces in place–Mycroft’s a bit more precariously.

“Sir?” Bennison looked a bit frazzled, for him.

“Did you arrange the disappearance of one of your associate’s PAs, Mr. Bennison?” he asked mildly.

Bennison’s eyes flickered to Mycroft, and then he stiffened, “I arranged her arrest, Sir. She was meeting with a known agent of Moriarty. She was clearly a spy, and probably participated in compromising Mr. Holmes, here.” He sneered at Mycroft. “She was meeting with Sebastian Moran–the man you claimed was being used to threaten her,” he looked back smugly at their superior, “as well as John Watson, his drug addicted brother’s flat mate, who was obviously there as a leash. We picked them up together.”

Mycroft snorted. _Bennison had always despised Sherlock; drug addicted relatives were almost a trope in his department._ _I hadn’t realized how much like Donovan and Anderson he was. Idiot._

Jack looked at him mildly. “Yes, we know she was–we encouraged it–she was gathering information.”

Bennison’s jaw dropped open. “That would have gone through ME.”

“Over your clearance level,” Mycroft said levelly. “She had previous contact with Sebastian, by chance. She immediately reported it to me–and to my superior, since I was potentially compromised. She was TASKED to continue contact if possible, and given extra trackers,” he smiled tightly, “as well as a panic alarm.”

“It should have been on FILE!” Bennison sputtered.

“And any actions being undertaken–especially a public arrest–against one of our people at THAT level should have gone through me, at least.” Jack’s voice was still very mild. “It wasn’t on file because we have concerns that Moriarty may still have agents in our ranks. Do you know what happened to them, Bennison?”

Bennison, finally realizing just how bad his position was, shook his head and stood more formally. “What we presume are Moriarty’s men caused a bad accident. We think the ambulance was theirs, too. All three of his agents–” he winced, “the presumed agents of Moriarty are missing–so are several of our men; the rest are dead.”

“You are under arrest, Mr. Bennison. I would normally ask Mr. Holmes to oversee your interrogation, but I don’t believe that would be wise. Please cooperate.”

“Yes, Sir.” He didn’t argue as he was taken away, although he looked calculating.

“I need to get her back,” Mycroft said quietly after he was gone. “Sherlock needs John, as well.”

“It is inadvisable to give him any more leverage on you,” Jack said calmly.

“He has John, which means he has Sherlock, and he has Anthea.” Mycroft closed his eyes and opened them again, “There isn’t any more leverage, Jack.”

“There’s always more leverage, Mycroft.”

*

On the other side of London–while everyone, including Bennison, had been scrambling to find out what had happened, and what went wrong, and security was pouring over the accident scene–a minor government functionary was drugged in his office, and smuggled out in a mail cart.

Moriarty preferred his own plans, of course, but when opportunity knocked…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are almost to the end of THIS story arc, not the story...


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> convergence... everyone awake, and at the same location... eventually.  
> this is the end of THIS story arc, not the story.

Anthea woke up. She immediately tried to move, but she was restrained; a gentle hand on her wrist got her attention.

“Anthea? I think we’ve been rescued–for some value of rescued.” John Watson looked down at her worriedly.

“You look like a worried puppy,” she said. “I’m locked down?”

“To a medical bed, yes. You also have an IV. A nurse just came in and put something in it and you started waking up.”

“Fuck,” she said without any emphasis. “Who has us?”

“Jim Moriarty. He wasn’t behind the arrest, but he...” John sighed, “I’m not sure if we were rescued, kidnapped, or both.”

 _Could be both–probably is both._ “That depends on who was behind the arrest,” she said, her eyes tracking around the room.

“I can sit you up a bit. Your neck is in a brace, too,” he added.

“Please. I need to see the room.” He put the bed into a more upright position. She looked around. “Converted bedroom, not a hospital room; no phone. I take it the drawers are empty?”

“I actually hadn’t looked,” John admitted.

“How were you going to escape if you haven’t even looked around, you jumper wearing rabbit!” She blinked a lot. “I either have a very bad concussion or I’m drugged.”

“No brain to mouth filter?” John nodded. “Could be either, or both. As to escaping? There isn’t any point, I can’t move you.”

“YOU could get away.” _Seriously, he was dressed, sort of, and not restrained: why hadn’t he even explored?!_

“Assuming I could–and that’s an assumption–right now there are armed men looking for us who appear to work for someone named Bennison–“

She hissed, “Oh FUCK that guy. He’s behind this? Mycroft will gut him. Shit, I hope he didn’t grab Sherlock, too.”

John froze. “Why would he grab Sherlock?”

Anthea groaned. “He always thought a drug addict brother was a convenient leash on Mr. Holmes. Bennison is the blackmail specialist: blackmail, honey traps, things like that. He never got his ego over my turning him down, either.”

Sebastian had slipped in–remarkably quietly for a man that size–as she was talking. John saw him but he didn’t look threatening.

“Hi, Tiger,” he said from the door.

She turned a smile in his direction– _a very welcoming, sexy smile,_ John noted–and said, “Sebastian!” Then she frowned, “Just how fucking drugged am I?”

He laughed, “A lot.” He walked over. “Did you have any idea about this?”

“You don’t have to drug me for that.” She snorted, “If I had been behind it, it would have been done better. I would have drugged your beer or something; also, I would have gotten you to fuck me again first.”

John flushed. “Is there any way to… uh… sober her up?”

“No,” Sebastian said amusedly. “It’ll wear off. You turned down this Bennison guy? When?”

“When I was still working in the general pool, and again after Mr. Holmes asked me to work for him directly.” She glared at Sebastian. “He’s behind this?”

“That Charles guy John saved thought so; you don’t remember him telling you?”

She frowned. “No, but my head hurts.” A flickering recollection of the van came back to her. “I think I do, or I might just be remembering it because you say it happened.” She looked dubiously at him. “You know I’m upset about this.”

“Yeah, I would be too, but I’ll try to keep it professional.” He nodded. “Did Mycroft know where you were going?”

“No. He was in that idiotic class/briefing/training thing, trying to give him more training in case someone tries to honey trap him. He probably wasn’t even out yet, unless he ditched the class again.”

Sebastian was muffling laughter.

John stared at her, “What?”

“They were worried about Moriarty using sex–or someone using sex–against him, so they were trying to give him training in how to use that to get information out of the other person.”

“As if!” Jim said from the door.

John stood up carefully, reflexively keeping his hands in sight. Somehow the little man was scarier than the wall of Sebastian.

“Holy shit, you’re real.” Anthea blinked at him. “Crap, how you can even walk?” Then she looked appalled. “In my defense, I’m drugged as fuck.”

“Tsk! Such language,” he smirked. He didn’t look angry, but you could never tell with him. “I told Sherlock you were alright, Johnny boy,” he added idly.

John winced, but said, “Thank you.”

“He called Mycroft, because I told him it was one of Mikey’s playmates. Of course, he immediately asked after you, darling.”

“Bite me,” she said immediately.

“I heard you like that, yes,” Jim smirked. Sebastian flinched faintly.

“Obviously. He would have told you, of course,” she said calmly.

“Do you know… Jim said walking over and curling a piece of her hair around his finger, “Sebastian DIDN’T tell me he spent the night with you?”

She had looked firmly at the ceiling, ignoring his hand, until that. Her eyes snapped over at him, “You’re lying.”

“No, no, I’m not. He said he found a fun playmate and came back looking like something the cat dragged in, grinning like a loon, but he didn’t tell me it was YOU.”

She stared over at Sebastian, who was trying NOT to look at Jim’s hand twining in her hair. John was trying not to breathe.

“Why… Why wouldn’t he?”

“Hmm... indeed. Tell her, Sebie.”

“I was hoping I would see you again, and I was fairly certain you wouldn’t tell YOUR boss you were with me…” He looked like he was reporting to a court martial. “I thought I could keep it personal.”

Jim took his hand out of her hair, and walked back to the door. “Except your life is never just your own, Sebie darling, not ever.” He looked thoughtfully at John and Anthea, “You all belong to me, now, and you best remember it.” He walked out.

John suddenly felt rather chilled, and shivered.

*

Mycroft went to Sherlock’s flat. Sherlock let him in cautiously. Mycroft sadly noted that he kept a defensive stance.

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

“Bennison confessed–or bragged, more accurately. He apparently thought he was capturing three agents of Moriarty, all working in some secret cabal and stupid enough to get caught like that.” Mycroft wrinkled his nose.

“John?” Sherlock said incredulously.

“Yes, obviously your handler. Bennison never liked you.”

“Since I never heard of him, I have no idea what he would think of me.”

“He works in blackmail and leverage–worked–he’s used to seeing addiction as a tool, a weakness.”

“Ah.”

“Call him,” Mycroft sighed. They both knew who he meant.

Sherlock nodded and called Jim.

“Hello, Sherlock–ah, good, hello Mycroft.”

“What do I have to do to get Anthea back?”

“Ask me nicely.” Jim sounded amused.

Mycroft bowed his head slightly. “Please, would you return her?” Sherlock stared at him in disbelief.

“I believe I will. You two can come pick up your pets.” He gave an address. “DO make sure you aren’t followed?”

“Of course.”

There was a click. Sherlock put the phone away. He never stopped staring at his brother.

“IS it that unbelievable? I begged him to leave you alone.”

“I suppose it’s just that I never heard it.”

They got in Mycroft’s car. Mycroft disabled the trackers and drove off.

“It will get worse,” Mycroft said calmly. “Much worse.” He looked at Sherlock, “He’ll have you there as well.” _Leverage._

“He said we’re both to come.”

“Yes. Yes, he did.”

The address was a car park. They got out and waited. After a very short time, Sebastian showed up with a car; he looked very blank. They both hesitated. Mycroft got in first; Sherlock followed with a faint indrawn breath.

“I really hate you, Mycroft,” Sebastian said calmly as he drove.

“I would imagine.”

“I don’t care about you, anymore, Sherlock, except that I think you’re pretty,” he said in an offhand fashion. “If it concerns you.”

“It did, rather,” Sherlock said, trying to sound calm. Mycroft knew better and very politely didn’t move, or look at him.

“As far as I know, we’re bugged, just in case you wondered.” He said, “It’s still true.”

“Are they alright?” Mycroft asked, as Sherlock was about to.

“John? Not a scratch.” He paused. “Well, a bruise or two, nothing major. Anthea didn’t get braced in time: she got thrown in the van; she’ll be alright, though.”

Sherlock was far more used to listening to him. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t tell Jim it was her, at the hotel, just that I found someone fun. He’s still rather upset with me.”

Mycroft stared at him.

Sherlock, rather incredulously, said, “You…” He looked back at Mycroft, “THAT’S why you asked about John? Because Anthea did?!”

Mycroft quietly, “She did, and came back with her priorities straight, and made me turn myself in.”

“Turn yourself in for what?” Sherlock said blankly. “I thought you had already?”

“Having sex with Jim.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Why would you do that?”

“I wanted to know.” Mycroft shrugged faintly.

Sherlock looked baffled. “Well, yes, I suppose. Did you get enough information to stop that ridiculous club nonsense?”

Sebastian groaned, “Oh God, poor bloody John. You’re HORRIBLE!”

Sherlock frowned, “What are you talking about?”

“No wonder the man is practically sobbing into his beer. Body like THAT and you sit there like it’s a God damned–“ he cut off abruptly as he parked the car in the garage of a very nice house.

Sebastian yanked the door open. “Get out!”

Sherlock got out looking completely at a loss. Mycroft followed him. They were escorted into the house where Jim was waiting, sitting on a chair, watching the door.

“Hello, Sherlock, Mycroft. Whatever has you so wound up, Sebie?”

“Is he ACTUALLY?” he said, waving at Sherlock.

“Yes. As far as I can tell, yes. I suppose it’s just possible he might be a demisexual, but if John Watson hasn’t gotten his interest up I don’t know who would, so I will have to say, yes, completely asexual, as well as disinterested and clueless.”

“It’s a CRIME!” Sebastian almost howled.

Jim waved a hand and Sebastian came over to him. Jim petted at his arm. “Yes, dear, yes it is.”

Sherlock was watching all of this in complete confusion.

Mycroft simply waited until Sebastian was done and asked, “What do I need to do?”

“Well first, Mycroft, my little fallen angel, you can come over here and kneel next to my chair, like a good pet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. most of the narrative POV at this point must be considered at least slightly unreliable, owing to drugs, fear, and bias.  
> 2\. the next story arc is short, and covers "What happened to the poor guy that got kidnapped out of the office at the end of chapter 20 (Note that at the end of Chapter 21 he hasn't woken up yet, technically his events don't take place until like chapter 3 or 4 of the next major arc, but since they would interrupt to place the there.... here they are.)  
> 3\. the next major story arc will pick up EXACTLY following the end of this chapter, in case you want to skip the "what happened to that guy" story.


End file.
